The Enemy You Know
by Padawan Aneiki R'hyvar
Summary: An offworld mission goes horribly awry but when Lt. Col. John Sheppard is finally returned to Atlantis, the aftermath is just as difficult. Generous whump and other wrinkles for the team to overcome. Set roughly midSeason Two
1. Chapter 1

Stargate: Atlantis

The Enemy You Know

ONE

"Offworld contact!"

Dr. Elizabeth Weir swung around sharply at the announcement, coming closer to the gate tech.

"Teyla?" she asked tensely, and after a moment received a sharp nod in return. Weir tapped her earpiece. "Teyla, this is Weir, come in."

"_We have found Colonel Sheppard,_" the voice of Teyla Emmagan was somewhat distorted, but intelligible. "_We will need a medical team to meet us at the Gate when we arrive_."

"Consider it done," Weir lifted her head slightly. "Carson?"

"_Already on m' way_," Carson Beckett's Scottish brogue answered her.

"Teyla, there's a med team on standby," Weir informed, and there was a long pause. "Teyla, Ronon. Do you copy?"

"_…trying the…disable…getting to him…_"

"Teyla, you're breaking up. Say again."

"_Contact…reach Gate…_"

"We've lost 'em," the tech reported the moment Weir glanced back at him, and she swore softly.

Long minutes passed, and Elizabeth paced slowly back and forth, glancing every so often at the Gate, waiting, willing it to activate and bring her people home. While she waited, there was a flurry of motion down below, Dr. Carson Beckett and his trauma team arriving with a gurney and emergency equipment. The Scottish doctor paused, looking up over his shoulder at Weir, a worried look that must have mirrored her own.

Suddenly the sound Elizabeth had been praying for came, the Gate sequence.

"Unscheduled offworld activity," the tech reported again; all protocol despite knowing it was most likely Teyla. "I've got an IDC…It's Teyla, Dr. Weir."

"Lower the shield! Let them in," Weir ordered anxiously, and she was already moving, leaving the control consoles and hurrying down the stairs toward the Gate. "And be ready to put it up the moment they come through! They may be coming under fire."

Teyla Emmagan and Ronon Dex all but ran through the event horizon, and the shield snapped up behind them, in time to block several blasts of fire.

"Sweet Mary mother o' God," Carson murmured.

Cradled in Ronon's arms as if he were no more than a child, lay the battered, bloodied figure of Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard.

"He's breathing and he has a pulse," Teyla informed quickly. "But he was unconscious when we found him."

"Dunna just stand there; get 'im over here," Beckett snapped, even though Dex was already carrying the injured Sheppard to the gurney. Carefully Sheppard was placed on it, and Beckett checked for himself that the colonel's life signs were stable enough to move him. "Let's go, people, _now_," he ordered and just that quickly the trauma team was moving.

Elizabeth turned to Teyla and Ronon, was slightly surprised to see Ronon swallow tightly.

"He's in good hands," she reassured instinctively, although her own worry had multiplied many times over. "You two did a good job."

"Not good enough," Dex grunted darkly, and folded his arms across his chest. Weir hesitated.

"Why don't you two come up to my office for a few minutes? It'll give us a chance to debrief, and give Carson some time." It was the last thing she wanted to do; she wanted more than anything to go straight to the Infirmary, but she also knew that the last thing Beckett needed was a half dozen people underfoot while he was trying to treat his patient.

"Ronon," Teyla simply spoke his name; it was her expression that did most of the convincing. With a sharp inhalation, Ronon finally uncrossed his arms and shrugged a bit, motioning toward Weir's office in acceptance.

The threesome climbed the stairs and made their way from the control room back to the office space that Weir had created during their time in Atlantis. Despite the urge to resume pacing, Elizabeth moved to her desk and sat down, and indicated with a gracious wave that the other two sit as well.

Ronon, however, was having none of that. He remained where he was; feet planted nearly in the center of the room, once again both arms crossing the broad chest. Teyla sat down across from Elizabeth, though, and Weir exhaled slowly.

"Let's start at the beginning," she finally said her tone deliberately calm. "How did you find him?"

Teyla shifted a little, reached into a pocket of her field jacket. Producing a field patch, she handed it over to Weir. It was John's shoulder patch and Elizabeth did not miss the bloodstain upon it.

"We found that upon one of them. Apparently he had been bragging about the Colonel's capture to some of his drinking companions. Ronon rather…persuasively convinced him to tell us everything he knew," Teyla said simply, without going into the details. Details that she was certain Weir would not particularly care to know.

"I…see," Elizabeth replied, grasping those details without them being spoken, and she flicked her gaze up to Ronon.

"We needed to find Colonel Sheppard. Our time was limited," Ronon did not elaborate further, but he had learned over the years that quite often explanations were an unnecessary waste of time. Weir frowned only slightly, but before she could respond, there was a flurry of motion behind Dex and then Dr. Rodney McKay was hurrying into the room despite sporting a sling on his right arm.

"I heard that Colonel Sheppard's been found?" the astrophysicist blurted out as he moved around Ronon to better see Weir at her desk. If not for the seriousness of the situation, McKay's nearly frantic expression would have been amusing.

"Yes, he has, Rodney," Weir answered first, understanding the scientist's anxious demeanor all too well. "He's been taken to the Infirmary."

"Thank God," McKay exclaimed, heeling around sharply in almost the same breath to leave, presumably for the Infirmary.

"Rodney," Weir's voice stopped him in mid-step and McKay turned around awkwardly to come back into the doorway. She exhaled slowly. "He's in bad shape."

"He is?" Rodney blinked several times, as if he had been spoken to in a foreign language, and he looked from Elizabeth to Ronon and then Teyla, both of whom nodded silently to confirm what he'd been told. "How…how bad is _bad_?" He stammered.

"We don't know. Yet." Weir folded her hands on her desk, again resisting the impulse herself to rush to the Infirmary. "I decided it would be a good idea to give Carson some room to work."

"Of…of course," McKay's gaze fell, his expression betraying the rush of thought that was going on in his mind. "Of course it is." The physicist swallowed tightly.

"How is the weapons upgrade going?" Elizabeth decided to distract Rodney's attention away from his anxiety, but he didn't respond. "Rodney?" She prompted.

"What? Oh," Rodney registered the question a half second later. "Oh, good. Better than good, really. The more we translate from that section of the Ancient database, the easier it's becoming." He waved his left hand dismissively. "I expect we'll have a working prototype in a few days."

"Weapons upgrade?" Teyla asked, drawn away from the matter at hand long enough to be curious.

"Yes, while you and Ronon were gone, I've had Rodney and Dr. Zelenka working on something we stumbled across in a portion of the Ancient database that might give the puddlejumpers a bit more bite," Elizabeth explained. Unspoken was the fact that it was mainly to give Rodney something to do, as a separated shoulder had prevented him from going with any of the search teams.

"The trick is going to be making it work without overloading the jumpers' power grid and rendering the cloak useless," McKay tacked on. "According to my calculations, we should be on track for that," McKay shifted uneasily. "I was going to have Colonel Sheppard take it up for a test flight."

"Well, that can wait. For now." Weir said gently, and Rodney nodded a little.

"I…I guess I'd better get back before Zelenka blows something up down there," he said awkwardly, and again started from Weir's office, only to pause and lean on the doorjamb. "You'll let me know…? How he's doing?"

"As soon as I hear from Carson. I promise," Elizabeth said firmly, and having secured her word, McKay was finally gone. She sighed softly, and looked back up to see the other two quietly watching her. "You two have had a rough time. Go get some rest, clean up. We can take this up again later. I'm sure it will be awhile before we hear anything on John."

A pair of reluctant nods answered her, but then Teyla and Ronon left as well, leaving Elizabeth to sit back in her chair with a long, slow sigh. After a few moments' thought, she forced herself to shift attention to some of the work waiting for her on her desk. An hour passed before Elizabeth could no longer stand it and she closed her laptop and made her way down to the Infirmary.

"Carson?" She spied the physician bent over a display, and crossed toward him, trying to resist the impulse to look around anxiously. Beckett straightened up, and his expression was solemn.

"Elizabeth. I was gettin' ready ta call for ye," the Scottish accent reflected soft concern. "We're doin' our best ta keep the Colonel stabilized." Beckett's voice took on a sharp, bitter edge. "The bastards beat 'im ta a bloody pulp!" Elizabeth could count on one hand the number of times she had seen the medical doctor so angry. It did little to calm the icy feeling growing in her stomach.

"How _is_ John?" she asked directly, watching her head of medicine closely, and Carson's expression softened once again into gentle concern.

"I'm afraid his condition is critical," he finally answered with a soft sigh. "Colonel Sheppard suffered multiple traumas. He has a fairly serious concussion and five fractured ribs. Three were clean breaks and two are hairline. His abdomen is a mass o' bruises; it's a bloody miracle there's no indication o' internal bleedin'. He's got a bruised kidney, a fractured wrist, a sprained knee, numerous lacerations and contusions." After detailing Sheppard's injuries, Carson exhaled slowly, "And that's not the worryin' part."

"It's _not_…?" Weir echoed her tone disbelieving. Beckett shook his head just slightly.

"They injected Colonel Sheppard with some sort o' neuro-toxin; somethin' I've never seen before."

Elizabeth's brow furrowed in worry, "Interrogation drug?" she inquired anxiously. Carson's head tilted slightly.

"Aye, 'twas my first thought as well," he agreed. "Until he wakes up, though, I will no' know what kind o' damage they've done or how much."

The silence that fell between them was tense, and Weir folded her arms across her chest. _Oh, John…what happened out there_? "Bottom line?" she cut to the chase; she had to know. Beckett blinked, and then frowned.

"I canna tell ye," he admitted. "He lost a fair amount o' blood and the head injury is pretty serious. I dunna know when he'll wake up. If we can keep him stable, get him past the next forty-eight hours, I'll feel much better about his chances. But for now…he's pretty touch-and-go."

"May I…" Weir hesitated. "May I see him?" Beckett nodded and motioned for her to come along.

"Over here," the physician led Elizabeth back to an area set up for the most seriously injured or ill patients. Weir couldn't help the soft gasp she sucked in as they arrived.

John lay motionless in the bed, his face badly bruised. His right eye was blackened and swollen, his lower lip also swollen, and split. The dark head was bandaged and his left forearm was in a cast; the fractured wrist Elizabeth surmised. An oxygen mask covered the colonel's nose and mouth and both arms sported IV's. A nearby monitor beeped along with the rhythm of his heart.

Elizabeth slowly approached the bed, standing at its foot and swallowing hard. Beneath the bruises on his face, John was frighteningly pale. Quietly she reached out to briefly touch the covered feet. "You have to stay with us, John," she murmured, and then glanced over her shoulder to Beckett, who hovered nearby. "He looks like he's lost a lot of weight." she commented and Beckett nodded.

"A good ten ta fifteen pounds, I'd wager. I dunna think they were all that generous when it came ta food and water, either," Carson's tone was again taut. "He's vera dehydrated; I'm pumpin' the fluids in ta 'im as fast as his body can handle 'em."

Elizabeth frowned and turned her attention back to the unconscious Colonel. Even in this state, Sheppard's face was faintly pinched in a vague expression of pain. For a long moment the only sound between them was the beeping of the cardiac monitor and the faint sounds of breathing beneath the oxygen mask.

"I want to know when he wakes up," she finally said, softly, before facing Beckett. "We still don't know enough about what really happened out there."

"Aye, but 'twill be quite some time before he wakes, I'd imagine," Carson cautioned. "And when he does, I highly doubt he'll be in any condition for a debriefin'." Elizabeth tilted her head slightly, her bearing taut.

"I understand," she replied, but her shoulders remained tense. "Still, we need to investigate fully how and why this happened to John. I need to get to the bottom of this so that I never end up with another one of my people in this situation."

"I promise ye'll be the first ta know," the physician nodded. Offering Carson a faint, but grateful smile, Elizabeth glanced back once more at Sheppard's stilled features before leaving the infirmary. The further she got, the faster she walked; she intended to discover the motivation behind this attack on her team, and specifically, John Sheppard.

* * *

Teyla prowled around the sparring circle, rolling one of the fighting sticks over her knuckles, watchful, tense. Moving in even steps across from her was Ronon, his own sticks at the ready. Neither of them had felt like taking the break suggested to them by Dr. Weir, and had by mutual consensus come to the training room.

Neither combatant flinched, as they warily circled; when Teyla finally launched out into an attack, no flicker of motion, no expression in her eyes gave her away before coming at Ronon in a flurry of offensive maneuvers. Ronon in turn met stroke for stroke; the crack of wood meeting wood echoed in the room and was complimented only by soft grunts of exertion as they threw themselves into the match.

In a lightning quick twist, Ronon turned and grabbed Teyla's wrist long enough to fling her around and follow up with a string of blows of his own, that Teyla barely managed to repel. Each of them seemed equally eager to work off the tension that had built up over their search for and subsequent rescue of Colonel Sheppard.

At last Ronon managed to get under Teyla's guard and he landed a blow across her right forearm, her left side and behind her left knee in quick succession, causing her to stumble. He followed up with a quick jerk on the stick that landed her flat on her back. Unlike their first attempt at sparring, however, he simply backed off, allowing Teyla to scramble back to her feet. The tension, however, instead of dissipating, seemed to build as Ronon whirled around, launching into a series of his own attacks without giving her much of a reprieve.

For several moments they battled, Emmagan managing to hold her own despite Dex' superior height and physical strength. At last she managed to score a few blows of her own and then backed off into a ready stance. It was met by a frustrated, nearly feral growl from Ronon.

"Hold!" Teyla called out, backing up another step and lowering her hands, although she remained watchful; Ronon was still learning control over his battle tendencies. For a moment it appeared that he would move to attack again, but finally he simply hunched his shoulders and began to pace. The Athosian waited several moments before moving again, this time to put away her fighting sticks. "The idea behind this was to release our anger, not to build it," she explained as Ronon stopped pacing to stare. "I can see that is not happening here."

The tall Satedan resumed pacing, as if to wear the proverbial hole, and eventually he tossed aside the fighting sticks he held. They could be put away later; right now that was merely a nuisance. When nothing more was forthcoming from Teyla, he stopped again, looking up. "What?"

"Perhaps it would help if we talked about what happened," Teyla suggested, despite the fact that Dex was not well known for his communication skills.

"What good is that?" Ronon shrugged. "What's done is done. Can't change it." It was, perhaps, the longest string of voluntary conversation Teyla had ever gotten out of him. "Won't fix Colonel Sheppard."

"No, that is true," Teyla replied evenly, coming several steps closer to Ronon. "But it would allow you to come to terms with what has happened. Dr. Weir was correct in that this has been an extremely difficult time for us all." She looked up patiently into the fierce face of her teammate.

"I don't need to come to any terms. I'm fine," Ronon answered her gruffly. Shrugging aside, he moved past Teyla and stalked from the training room, leaving her to gather up the discarded fighting sticks. Bending down to retrieve them, Teyla exhaled slowly, thoughtfully.

"But perhaps I am not," she admitted aloud to herself, now that no one else was present. Putting away the other pair of sticks, she too exited the room and headed for her quarters. Dr. Weir might well have been right after all; maybe all she needed was some sleep.

For his own part, Ronon strode down the hallways, not particularly watching to where he was going, or particularly trying to avoid people in his path. A few toes were stepped on, quite literally, and a stack of three-ring binders went flying from somebody's arms, but he didn't feel like stopping. Nobody actually tried to make him.

The tall, muscular fighter finally stopped walking, and found he was standing a few feet away from one of the many balconies that overlooked the Atlantean ocean. It was one of Colonel Sheppard's favorite places to come and think, not far from the control center of the city. Hesitating, and glancing about, Ronon took the few steps necessary to come out onto the balcony.

The tangy scent of saltwater was in the air, and the breeze was just stiff enough to blow back a few of his heavy dreadlocks. Ronon stood stock still, looking out over the massive expanse of water, arms across his chest. The sound of the waves lapping up against the base of the city could be heard even up here. It would be dusk, soon; already the far horizon was hazier as this balcony was situated toward sunrise rather than sunset.

Despite the tension that seemed to almost physically emanate from him, Ronon realized he could see why the colonel liked it out here. There was something peaceful about the sound, the scent of the salt air. Slowly he uncrossed his arms and stepped further forward, resting his hands on the balcony's wall.

* * *

"No! No, no, no…if you run it like that, the jumper'll blow _itself_ up before anything else. Run those numbers again…something's got to be backwards in there, like your brain," Rodney snapped, his good hand pointing to a set of computations on one of the computer screens.

"JÁ vůle ukazovat tebe kdo is dozadu, osel!!" _I will show you who is backwards, jackass_! The string of Czech that followed could only be even more derogatory, and McKay declined to ask for a translation.

"Yes, yes I'm sure that works for you," Rodney dismissed the incomprehensible rant from Radek Zelenka. "But what would really work for _me_ is getting these figures right."

"They _are_ right!" Zelenka's accented protest drew the attentions of the handful of scientists assisting them with the puddlejumper modifications. "It is you who are making the mistake here." Zelenka turned away to pick up several pieces of paper; as much as he relied on the computers there were just times that he needed to scratch his way through a problem with pencil and paper. "Borscht do mozeček!" _Borscht for brains_!

"I heard that," Rodney accused, despite having next to no idea what Radek had said.

"Look. Look at this," Radek pointed along a series of calculations. "_That_ is the power curve from the drive pods. _This_ is what we get when power is diverted. If we decrease the ratio any further…"

"Right, right, we run the risk of losing the cloak. I get it. But if we increase it as much as you're saying we should, we'll blow the freaking pods _off_. And what good will _that_ be, hmm? Maybe if they're running a suicide mission!" McKay started to walk around Zelenka, but the Czech turned at the same exact moment, resulting in a minor collision. It was enough of one, however, to jostle McKay's injured shoulder, and his face scrunched up in a pained wince. "OW!" He exclaimed a few seconds later.

"I am sorry, Rodney," Radek apologized, his hand moving to Rodney's good arm to steady him. "Are you all right?" He watched, concerned, as Rodney slowly sat down on a nearby stool.

"I'm fine. Really. Just feels like my arm is about ready to fall out, but yes I'm all right, thank you very much," McKay muttered, before very gingerly adjusting the sling just a bit. Tiredly he reached up with his left hand and rubbed his eyes. "Look, Zelenka, just take a break, okay? Take off for a while. We'll get back to this later."

"Are you sure?" Zelenka asked, still hovering. "It is not that late, yet."

"I'm sure," McKay waved the other scientist away. "We've been at it all day, and I don't know about you, but being this brilliant makes me hungry. Go get some supper…do…do whatever it is you do when you're not down here. And no, I don't want to know about it." He turned his head slightly, directing his voice to the rest of the team. "That goes for the rest of you, too. Out, out, out."

"What about you?" Radek pressed, and Rodney resisted the impulse to shrug in the wake of the jarring his shoulder had just received.

"I'm just going to turn things off down here first, and then I'll worry about that," he replied, and got to his feet, moving to his own equipment and powering it down.

"Tomorrow morning?" the Czech confirmed, and Rodney nodded without looking up. "Good night, Rodney."

The small laboratory emptied out, and Rodney exhaled slowly as he moved about the room, turning off monitors and other equipment. Predictably his thoughts strayed and he scowled briefly at the sling in which his injured arm rested. He should have been _out_ there, helping the rescue effort. The throbbing ache in his shoulder reminded him insistently why he had not been allowed. _I really need to learn how to swear in Czech. Wonder if Zelenka would teach me_?

Oddly enough, that single thought was enough to make Rodney chuckle briefly. _You _are_ tired, McKay if you're laughing about something that juvenile_. He looked around the lab, satisfied that everything was where it ought to be for the night. His gaze fell on the sheaf of papers that Zelenka had dropped on the floor when they had bumped into each other, and he bent down to pick them up. At first he just gave the computations a cursory glance, when something caught his eye, and he wandered back over to one of the nearby stools and sat down.

The side notes in Czech were of little consequence as Rodney couldn't read them anyway, but the mathematics and graphs, formulas and other theoretical material were easily enough deciphered. Turning a bit on the stool to lay the papers out flat on a nearby table, he fumbled across the table with his good hand to pick up a pencil and another few sheets of blank paper.

"All right, then…let's just see who's got it going on here." After a quick look to make certain Radek had begun with the same starting information, Rodney settled down and soon the pencil was making quick scratches on the paper. One hour passed…then two. Partway through the second hour, Rodney powered up one of the data tablets to double-check some of his work. "Okay, wait," he mumbled to himself, tapping the touch screen and comparing the results with what he'd written out. Frowning slightly, he flipped through the papers Zelenka had left behind.

Not finding what he was looking for right away, the astrophysicist leaned back and absently tapped the eraser end of the pencil on the tabletop. He knew why he was still here; of course he did and it had absolutely nothing to do with proving or disproving Zelenka's conclusions or his own. It had everything to do with the avoidance of other trains of thought, particularly those revolving around Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard. More to the point, the last conscious memory he had before waking up in the Infirmary himself. Sheppard, calling his name, with a sort of panicked undertone that Rodney couldn't recall ever hearing from him before. _Rodney_!

McKay's eyes narrowed in thought. "That must've been right before I passed out; he must've thought I was dead. Or going to be," he murmured, abruptly ceasing to tap the pencil and tossing it on the table. "I thought so too," he admitted to himself. Absently he reached up and carefully readjusted the sling strap resting on his good shoulder. Swallowing tightly, he reached for the pencil again and a fresh sheet of paper.

This was going to be a long night.

* * *

The infirmary was quiet. Quiet and softly lit as dusk began to give way to night, and the night watch began to take over for the daytime personnel. Aside from the Colonel, there were a few other patients. One of the Athosian children who had been brought over from the mainland, very sick, who had turned out to be in need of an appendectomy, and Kayla Miakis, a botany PhD who had joined the Atlantis expedition not long ago. Her condition was much improved after a cardiac event triggered by a rather…aggressive and poisonous vine on M6D-8R3. Carson had to admit that he was more than relieved that there had been no permanent damage to her heart.

A soft whimper drew Carson's attention away from the display he had been studying, and he looked up, instantly glancing over at John Sheppard, but the Colonel remained quite unconscious. A soft worried frown over his most critical patient gave way to an expression of forced calm as he made his way over to the bed in which the little Athosian boy lay.

"Wickley?" He laid a hand soothingly against the child's forehead. "Are ye awake, laddie?"

"Yes." The boy—only ten years old according to Halling—opened his eyes and looked up. "It hurts," he muttered. Carson smiled reassuringly at the child.

"It will be a wee bit sore for a few days, but I promise ye, it'll get better," he stroked his hand along the pale forehead. "I'll get a little somethin' ta make you feel better, all right now? And then ye need ta rest."

"I am thirsty," Wickley said next, and Carson nodded.

"Aye; that we can help too," he said and moved a few steps away to retrieve some water for the boy, and some mild pain medication. Coming back, he handed the two small pills to the child. "Ye canna chew 'em; I want ye ta swallow 'em whole with some water." Shifting the cup of water to his left hand, Carson slipped his right one behind Wickley's shoulders and very gently lifted him up enough to take the medicine before handing the boy the cup.

Wickley however hesitated, blinking. "What is it laddie?" Carson frowned slightly.

"What happened to Colonel Sheppard?" Wickley whispered softly. "Did…did the Wraith hurt him?"

Carson mentally kicked himself. When Wickley had been placed into this bed, it had been more of a matter of convenience in taking care of him. Carson certainly had not intended for the seriously injured colonel to be within view of the boy.

"Nay, laddie. The Wraith did no' do anythin' ta 'im, I promise." He shifted just slightly, partly blocking Wickley's line of sight and nodding toward the cup and pills the boy held. "C'mon now, take your medicine." After another moment's hesitation, Wickley obeyed; he did hurt.

"Will Colonel Sheppard get better, too?" the child asked after he had swallowed the pills and almost half the cup of water. Carson gently eased Wickley back against the pillow and brushed back the longish black hair that had tumbled into the boy's face. He felt his heart drop at Wickley's innocent question; the latest difficulty in treating the colonel revolved around trying to stabilize his heart rate. The concussion was severe enough that it _could_ produce a slowed heartbeat. However, for reasons Carson had yet to pinpoint, John's heart was fluctuating between extremes and proving quite difficult to regulate.

"That's what we all want, Wickley," Carson gave the child his best bedside manner smile as he checked the young one's vital signs. "We're takin' extra special care o' 'im."

"He has to get better," Wickley insisted as Carson pulled up the blanket just a bit. "Colonel Sheppard promised to…" He paused, trying to remember the word. "Coach…coach us."

That caught Beckett's attention, and the doctor's eyebrows lifted slightly in curiosity, "Coach ye, now? What would he be coachin' ye for?"

"Something he called 'football,'" Wickley said with an excited smile. "He said there are enough of us to make two teams."

"Aye, did he? Well then, that'll be a sight ta see," Carson chuckled slightly despite his concerns over the colonel's condition. "But, laddie, 'tis one that will have ta wait until both o' ye are well. And that means ye need ta rest. Can ye do that for me?" He ruffled the boy's dark hair and Wickley smiled up at him.

"Thank you, Dr. Beckett," the boy remembered his manners.

"Ye are quite welcome, Wickley. If ye need anythin', Dr. Suhaila and I will both be here." Patting the Athosian boy's shoulder, Carson waited until Wickley closed his eyes before crossing back over to the monitor he had been studying. Checking it briefly, he walked around the table into the critical care suite.

The physician's gaze moved first to the cardiac monitor; he was pleased to see that currently John's heartbeat was approaching something a little closer to normal. Taking out his stethoscope, Carson leaned down and carefully listened to the colonel's lungs. So far there had been no indication of respiratory complications despite the broken ribs, and Carson was more than grateful for that. The last thing John Sheppard needed right now was more complications.

"Dr. Carson?" a lightly accented voice inquired, and Carson looked up from his check of Colonel Sheppard to see the slender, shorter figure of Dr. Suhaila, the head of Carson's night staff. Suhaila was a Malaysian born woman who had studied at St. Thomas Hospital in London as well as at Johns Hopkins and whom Carson considered extremely qualified despite her diminutive stature; she barely stood at five feet tall. But the Malaysian physician was adept at her work and had one of the best pairs of surgical hands he had ever seen.

"Good evenin', Siti," Beckett greeted her politely as he pocketed his stethoscope and checked the IV dripping into Sheppard's right arm.

"How is Colonel John?" Suhaila asked as she came closer. Her dark hair, which reached nearly to her waist, was bound in a single long braid down her back. "I was told only a minutes ago that he is rescued."

Carson felt a smile tease his lips despite the seriousness of the situation. Perhaps Siti's English wasn't _quite_ perfect despite all her time in England and the States, but her skills more than made up for it. And she had the perpetual habit of addressing everyone by their title and given name, rather than their surname, which was somewhat endearing.

"He's still in bit o' rough shape, I'm afraid," he answered as he left John's bedside and joined the slender Malaysian. "But given the injuries he took, the colonel's a wee bit better off than I might've expected of 'im." The two physicians stood to the side as Carson updated John's chart and handed it to Siti. She skimmed through it, her dark head nodding slightly as she did so.

"What on the world did they do to him?" she muttered, clearly displeased with what she was reading. "Another galaxy maybe we are coming from but human is human. I will never get it why people do these things to each another."

Carson nodded his agreement. "Ye will get nary an argument from me there, lassie," he said emphatically, and he reached up to rub his eyes despite the fact that it wasn't all that late. "The cruelty of others never fails ta surprise me, no matter how often I see it."

"You should take a rest," Suhaila said, looking up from the handwritten notes Beckett had added to the margins of John's chart. A moment later, her dark brown eyes narrowed slightly. "Have you even eating today?"

"I had breakfast," Carson defended himself, but Siti's sharp gaze kept him pinned down and he exhaled a little. "Colonel Sheppard was brought in near ta noon and I dinna get a chance ta eat," he admitted.

"He will keep awhile with me," Suhaila challenged. "Go."

Carson hesitated. Heaven knew he was ready for a small break, but even as confident as he was in Dr. Suhaila's abilities, he was reluctant to leave Colonel Sheppard.

"Dr. Carson…" Siti said warningly, and Carson sighed.

"I promise, love, that I'll get somethin' in a little while," he said seriously. "Presently…I need ta stay right close." He hoped that the Malaysian would not misunderstand his motivations and was relieved when Siti gave in and handed back the chart. "Thank ye, Doctor. However, I think a little lad will be happy ta see ye the next time he wakes up," Carson indicated the bed in which Wickley dozed. "He's doin' quite fine. No indication o' secondary infection."

Suhaila smiled widely at that; when the Athosian boy had first been brought in, not long after dawn, she had not quite gone off duty. As she had grown up with several brothers and sisters, she had taken an immediate liking to Wickley and Carson had to admit, it was just the right sort of charm to help calm the rather sick and frightened boy.

"That is good," she agreed wholeheartedly. "Anything else you should telling me?" She glanced around as they stepped from the critical care suite and her eyes alighted upon the botanist a few beds away. "Dr. Kayla?"

"Resting comfortably," Carson was also pleased to report that. "Cardiac function is approachin' normal, respiration is good. Poor lass has had a nasty headache, but given the circumstances, I think she got off pretty easy. I dunna know how I'da gotten out o' that one with a five inch thorn in me chest." He exhaled in a long sigh. "This whole Pegasus deal is turnin' out stranger every day. A sentient plant…creepy bugs…creatures that suck your life away with their hands like drinkin' soda through a straw…" Carson shook his head slightly. He could not have explained exactly what it was that continued to draw him to Atlantis if someone asked. Examined from such a stark viewpoint as the dangers he'd just mentioned, one might certainly consider him a bit off his rocker, but Carson also realized there was so much more to it than that.

He could not deny that despite disliking Stargate travel itself, he still felt a sort of professional awe to be part of something this historic, this grand, even if the at-large population of Earth was unaware of it. Of course, it also had a great deal to do with the growing cohesion and camaraderie among the expedition members. Despite a few personality quirks and some rough starts, the operations of the Atlantis base were becoming a little more routine and a little less desperate. This, Carson had to admit, was a _good_ thing given that one never knew when they'd be faced with, say, a sentient hunter-plant with five-inch thorns and the capability to stop one's heart.

Or a terrible beating at the hands of one's abductors.

"I am over here if you needing me," Dr. Suhaila was saying, and Beckett blinked himself away from his rambling train of thought.

"Aye, that'll be just fine," he acknowledged, well aware that the Malaysian woman was watching him with a somewhat mothering expression. "I'm all right, lass. Just thinkin'."

"Got it," Suhaila replied with a slight shake of her dark head, and walked away to look over Dr. Miakis' chart. Beckett watched her go, and then glanced back toward his most worrisome patient. His expression settled into a concerned frown as he returned to the diagnostic display where he had spent most of the afternoon.

Sitting down, he tapped the screen and returned to his current task, trying to pinpoint the key identifiers that would allow him to hopefully create a treatment for the toxin that had been given to Colonel Sheppard. Despite not having enough information—he really needed John to wake up so he could gauge what sort of harm it had done—Carson was gleaning what he could from a blood sample taken earlier. It was entirely possible however that the toxin, rather than the head injury, was keeping the colonel from regaining consciousness. Neither option particularly suited the physician; both had their dangers. Still, all he could do was be patient, and wait for John to awaken. That, and work.

_And pray_. Carson could very nearly hear his grandmother's voice actually say it. He was not necessarily that much of a praying man, but had been raised Scottish Catholic and his grandmother, bless her soul, was fairly devout. Almost instinctively, Carson began to recite under his breath, "_Hail Mary, full o' Grace_…"

It couldn't hurt.

* * *

Elizabeth leaned back in her chair, rubbing her eyes and then her forehead in slow succession. She had spent the last several hours debriefing the remaining search teams upon their returns to Atlantis, in hopes of gaining any other intelligence that might help with the investigation into the events surrounding John's capture. She had followed that with a review of mission reports submitted by the various team leaders after each operation.

That meant, she realized suddenly, it was now very, very late. Despite the fact that her mind had not stopped racing the proverbial mile a minute, she was abruptly tempted to fall asleep right here in her chair. After toying with that idea for a few brief seconds, Elizabeth forced herself to sit up straight and take a deep breath.

Weir knew she should sleep. Knew it would not help John Sheppard a bit if she ended up exhausted herself, but somehow…she couldn't let herself give in to the temptation to find her pillow. Drawing in a deep, fortifying breath and releasing it slowly, she returned her attention to the screen where she had been reading the mission log turned in by Major Lorne.

Suddenly, with the abrupt flash of mental clarity that comes to the adrenaline-driven, Elizabeth realized why she would not sleep tonight, and she nodded to herself slightly. More than just worry about Colonel Sheppard, or any of her other people, it was the simple knowledge that, were their positions reversed, John would not sleep either.

"It's my understanding that your office is the last best hope for a cup of coffee this late at night."

Elizabeth glanced up and blinked, startled, at the familiar voice from the doorway.

"Colonel Caldwell," she greeted, her forehead drawing itself into a frown of confusion. "What are you doing here? I thought the _Daedalus_ wasn't due back here for another two weeks." Caldwell shrugged slightly as he stepped through the door into Weir's office, and settled down into a chair opposite her.

"Well, we completed our repairs earlier than anticipated, _and_ the SGC considered it prudent to send us back your way with a supply run," his answer was simple and straightforward. "And…to give you an enhanced military presence considering your…situation."

Weir's eyebrows shot up at that. Tact, whether it was actually attempted or not, did not wear well on the commander of the _Daedalus_.

"Situation?" She leaned back again and regarded the Colonel frankly. "Just what 'situation' would that be?" Elizabeth knew she was spoiling for an argument, but at nearly two AM Atlantis time, she wasn't in the mood for any false pleasantries.

Now it was Caldwell's turn to look a little affronted. "One of your people goes missing—not just anyone, mind you but your ranking military officer—and you're asking _me_ what situation? Come on, Elizabeth, we're both adults here. There's no reason to treat me like a ten year old."

"Then perhaps you should stop _acting_ like one," Weir shot back, a little heat in her voice now. "Frankly, I'm getting a little tired of you breathing down my neck every time something happens with Colonel Sheppard."

"Frankly, the SGC is a little tired of 'something happening' with Colonel Sheppard every time they hear from you," Caldwell replied calmly, and simply held her gaze. Elizabeth leaned forward.

"Well for your information, Colonel Caldwell, Colonel Sheppard has been rescued."

"Good for Colonel Sheppard," Caldwell said dryly, and then inclined his head slightly. "But is it good for Atlantis?"

Weir exhaled slowly, working to maintain her composure. "I suppose you're about to tell me just what _is_ good for Atlantis."

"Tell me this," Caldwell leaned forward now, one hand on his knee. "Do you know why he was taken in the first place? Stop and think about it. As your ranking officer, John Sheppard has access to Atlantis' strategic information including weapons, tactics and defenses. Until you can account for what happened to him and why, I don't think we can sit here and be all comfortable about it."

Elizabeth drew in a measured breath. "You think I haven't thought about that already?" she replied evenly, "Atlantis is my responsibility. You bet I've thought about it. But I also have a responsibility to my people, and you and I both know that John Sheppard is one of the best I have. I am not going to sell him out for the sake of your ambition."

"We're not enemies, here," Caldwell's jaw tightened slightly. "In case you've missed it we're on the same side. Whatever my ambitions may or may not be, they have nothing to do with this. The security and defense of Atlantis does. The SGC agrees. And that's why I'm here. To investigate exactly what happened and take the appropriate course of action."

Elizabeth's shock was ill concealed, and she knew it. She gaped at Caldwell momentarily before regaining her equilibrium. "We've already begun an investigation," she defended, and Caldwell nodded in a conciliatory manner, knowing he had caught her off guard and rather pleased with himself.

"I expected that you would. We can work together on this, Doctor, or we can work apart, but be aware that the SGC has requested this inquiry. I'm sure you can understand that it's in the best interests of both Atlantis and Colonel Sheppard that we cooperate with each other."

Elizabeth bit back a sharp response, and leaned her elbows wearily on her desk, thumb and forefinger pinching the bridge of her nose to stave off the headache she felt coming on. "It's two-fifteen in the morning, Colonel. Do you mind if I cooperate later?" The sarcasm wasn't lost on the colonel sitting across from her, and he reacted with a slight lifting of his eyebrows.

"That's quite acceptable, thank you," Caldwell kept his tone calm, watching Weir closely a moment before getting up from the chair and starting for the door. "I know you don't like this and I can appreciate that. My purpose here is not personal." He paused in the doorway much as he had upon entering, and glanced back. "Whether you believe that or not is none of my concern, but this investigation is. I'm not willing to sell out Atlantis for the sake of any misplaced loyalties."

Before Elizabeth could deliver a scathing retort, Caldwell was gone, and she simply shook her head. Despite Caldwell's assertion that this was not to be taken personally, she was smart enough to know when her toes had been stepped on. This was something she intended to take up with the powers that be; if that meant going over the head of the SGC to call in a few political favors, then so be it.

_If Caldwell came here to play hardball…well, then, all right_, Elizabeth mused. _I can swing a bat, too_.

Realizing that there was little more to be accomplished by sitting there and stewing over Caldwell's 'investigation,' Elizabeth tried to refocus her attention on her own efforts. Returning to the mission summary on her screen, she began to read again. Before long, however, the words began to blur together and she had to stop.

Picking up the mug nearby, Elizabeth absently swirled its contents briefly before taking a sip. The coffee within was still fairly warm, if not hot and so she didn't mind it much and drank a little more. Leaning back in her chair once more, she rubbed her forehead and stared tiredly at the computer screen without distinguishing any of the words. Her sight was turned inward, and what she saw was John's bruised, battered body lying in that bed in the Infirmary.

_"Well it's pretty obvious to me, anyway, that these people have done whatever they can to survive after the Wraith cullings," John declared as he shifted a bit in his seat. "I think we can establish relations with them, maybe do a little trading. Their leader, Yin'e, seems to be very open."_

_"…But?" Elizabeth could sense rather than actually hear the hesitation in the colonel and she had learned rather quickly to trust his instincts. She knew she was right as Sheppard moved again in his chair, this time somewhat uneasily._

_"Well…" he sighed softly before continuing. "There is this little matter of convincing the rest of his Council that it's a good idea. Seems they're a little suspicious of outsiders, that kind of thing."_

_"After centuries of culling by the Wraith, can you blame them?" McKay piped up from the other end of the table. "Hate to tell you, Colonel but that charming smile doesn't work on _everybody_, y'know."_

_Sheppard grinned mischievously and leaned closer to Weir, but spoke just loudly enough for the rest to hear, "He's just jealous 'cause Yin'e's daughter ignored him the whole time."_

_On John's other side, Teyla bowed her head slightly, trying to hide a smile but was not completely successful. Ronon just looked on impassively, but he did raise his eyebrows a little when John looked his way._

_"Jeal—you're dreaming, Colonel," McKay sputtered, and John just leaned back in his chair, grinning the grin of the self-satisfied. Weir just shook her head._

_"Not to interrupt your egos, gentlemen, but can we get back to the matter at hand?"_

_John dropped the grin, and sat up again, leaning his arms on the table._

_"I think we should go back," Sheppard recommended firmly, a slight nod backing up his words. "It would gain us another ally and I don't think I need to make a really big pitch for that."_

_"I agree with Colonel Sheppard." Teyla put in now, glancing at the others. "The Isturans may be wary but I see the same potential for good relations and mutual aid for us all."_

_"The more, the merrier…" Rodney remarked with a slight shrug. "I don't think they have anything of technological merit to put on the table, but I suppose a Wraith culling every few centuries would make it difficult to climb out of the Stone Age."_

_"I'm sure they'd appreciate your vote of confidence Rodney," John's expression was as deadpan as his tone of voice, and this time it was Elizabeth whose expression was somewhat amused, but she then turned to Ronon, who had hardly spoken the entire meeting._

_"What do you think, Ronon?" she prodded, hoping to glean whatever point of view the former Wraith "runner" might have to offer._

_"Dunno. Seems okay," He shrugged a bit, but there was a fleeting expression of discomfort that crossed his features. "I don't like it," he finally declared, which took John by as much surprise as it did Elizabeth._

_"Anything in _particular_ you don't like?" Sheppard asked guardedly and Ronon exhaled before shifting and tossing something out into the middle of the table._

_It was one of the photographs of John Sheppard that had been distributed by the Genii throughout the near side of the galaxy, inscribed in several languages as a 'wanted poster' of sorts. Elizabeth exhaled sharply and leaned back a moment before glancing at Sheppard._

_"Do you still think it's a good idea to go back?" she asked pointedly_.

"I should have stopped it there," Weir murmured to herself very softly over the rim of her coffee cup.

John, with his usual boyish charm, had pressed for their return, and Ronon confirmed that the picture had been the only one he'd encountered during the handful of visits made by reconnaissance teams. As the discussion continued, John defended his position by declaring that if they started tiptoeing around because of the Genii, they might as well pack their bags, go home and wait for the Wraith to show up.

While Elizabeth had agreed with the colonel—and still did, for that matter—she could not help but wonder briefly if Caldwell's mandate from the SGC was justified. She couldn't deny that she felt responsible for what had happened. And it was not the first time her leadership had been called into question, either, given the detailed and nauseating reports filed by Kavanagh with the SGC.

Swallowing tightly, Elizabeth set aside the coffee cup and rubbed her eyes with both hands. Well one thing was for certain. She made her decisions with the greater interests of Atlantis as well as her people in mind. If the SGC couldn't—or wouldn't—accept that, she would have to live with the fallout, but she would not just lie down for it. She intended to unravel this herself.

Reaching over, Elizabeth closed down the laptop. All of it would have to wait for later; whether she slept or not, her mind was not making much sense of any of it at the moment. Rising to leave, she closed her eyes briefly in self-recrimination. After having promised to let Rodney know about any update on John's condition, she realized that she had forgotten it completely in the focus on sifting through the information from the search teams.

Slipping from her office, Weir headed off toward the research lab that Rodney McKay nearly regarded as a second home. Certainly there would be no logical reason for McKay to still be working, but given the current circumstances, she rather highly doubted he was asleep, either.

* * *

Ronon's head jerked upright, and he blinked, momentarily disoriented. He had settled onto the floor of the balcony some hours ago, sitting and staring until the night had grown dark enough that he couldn't see beyond a few inches. He did not know what time it was, although that didn't greatly matter.

Blinking again, he realized he must have dozed off, despite the restlessness that had plagued him from the moment Colonel Sheppard had gone missing. The sound of the ocean below could be hypnotic, and he must have been tired enough to be lulled by it. Stretching slowly, almost like a cat, the tall Satedan climbed to his feet, a deadly sort of grace even in getting up.

The activities within the control center were muted, like the lights. The night watch had long settled into their routine, and there were only a few people visible as Ronon stepped into the hallway from the balcony. The breeze had grown a bit chillier as he'd slept; he could feel it at his back although he did not shiver.

His gaze roved around the area, taking in who was on duty. He still did not know all the people under Colonel Sheppard's command but many of the faces were now familiar, and he was growing accustomed to the indications of rank among them. Movement caught his attention to his right, and he saw Dr. Weir making her way into one of the hallways leading out of the control tower. From the appearance of all around him, Ronon concluded the hour was much later than normal for the expedition leader.

Perhaps she was restless, too.

His stomach growled unexpectedly, and Ronon realized that he had not eaten all day. The search for Colonel Sheppard had taken precedence over breakfast, and after his rescue, food had been the last thing on Ronon's mind.

Easing into the hallway, he went back the way he'd come, only this time walking a little slower and without the amount of traffic coming the opposite direction. The quiet was eerie, almost, something that as a "runner" he had hated with a passion. The stillness that meant death could be sneaking up on you in your sleep. At least with a fire, there had been the crackle of flames to keep him company in some of the more desolate places he had holed up in over the years. Atlantis, this late at night, was nearly silent and with that silence, Ronon could almost feel the hairs stand up on the back of his neck, as if he still half-expected a Wraith to come around the next corner.

Not that he would have admitted it to anyone…except perhaps a certain Lieutenant Colonel who had gained Ronon's trust faster than anyone—including himself—would have thought possible. Sheppard seemed to almost instinctively understand him, and Ronon appreciated that considering that the rest of the Atlantis personnel were still trying to figure him out. It suited him, usually; he would prefer not to reveal too much of himself. It made him vulnerable, and the one thing Ronon refused to be was vulnerable. Yet he did not get that feeling from John Sheppard. The colonel didn't patronize him, for one thing. Better yet, Sheppard had accepted him as an equal; a comrade in arms, right from the start and that too suited Ronon just fine.

The long strides abruptly stopped; however, as Ronon realized that instead of to the mess hall to see if anything was still available, he had unconsciously wandered down to the infirmary instead. He hesitated for several moments before finally stepping quietly into Dr. Beckett's domain, a place he'd normally avoid at all costs.

"Ronon?" Carson approached with a slight frown upon his face. "Are ye feelin' aright? What brings ye down here so late?" The Satedan hunched his shoulders a little.

"How is Sheppard?" he finally asked, as if it was being pulled from him. The Scotsman nodded a little, as if having expected that to be the real reason for Ronon's appearance.

"Still unconscious, I'm afraid," Carson answered now, motioning for Ronon to come along. "He was hurt vera badly, as ye well know." Ronon grunted slightly; the physician had touched on the current of anger that he continued to harbor toward Colonel Sheppard's captors. "'Tis a good thing the two o' ye found him when ye did; another few days would a' killed 'im for sure."

Beckett's assertion caught him off guard, and Dex looked up sharply as if to ascertain the truth of the physician's words. He'd known the moment he and Teyla found the colonel that the beating Sheppard had taken was bad, but somehow he'd missed just how close a thing it had been. "Seriously?" He knew it sounded ridiculous; there was no reason for the doctor to exaggerate. He simply did not know what else to say.

"Aye; I'm convinced, Ronon. Ye saved his life," Beckett said firmly as he stood aside to allow the taller man access into the critical care suite. The Satedan frowned slightly as he passed by the doctor, his mind chewing over that bit of information. He was not as certain as Beckett seemed to be of the merit of their actions; Colonel Sheppard should never have been taken in the first place.

The frown deepened as he came to stand near Sheppard. The stillness was the first thing that struck Ronon as he looked down at the bed. Like the silence of Atlantis at night, the sight of the colonel's motionless form was unnerving. Ronon noted the stark bruises, realized how much darker they looked now that Sheppard had been cleaned up. The lack of light in Sheppard's containment cell, along with the dirt, had hidden some of them.

_"Here!" Teyla hissed sharply. "He's in here!"_

_Ronon hurried down the dank underground hallway, to the holding cell that contained John Sheppard. "Keep watch," he grunted as he set about finding a way to circumvent the security seal and containment field that separated them from Sheppard._

_Teyla nodded with her P-90 held at the ready and her senses alert. Still, she could not help but glance back over her shoulder every so often as Ronon worked, worry clearly displayed in her features. As quickly as Ronon tried to dismantle what seemed to be the miniature field generator in the wall, he too could not help but look at the object of their rescue effort._

_Sheppard was lying on his side, facing away from them. He was curled in on himself, one arm cradled around his stomach. His hair was longer, and matted in places. Even through the energy field that held Sheppard prisoner, Ronon could smell sweat and blood, along with other, more unpleasant, odors. He could feel his fury rising as he worked._

_"Hurry!" Teyla urged as she looked over. "We do not have much time." She tapped her earpiece, using the relay signal through the Stargate to contact Atlantis, "Atlantis Base, this is Teyla Emmagan, come in."_

"Teyla, this is Weir, come in," _Weir's voice came back over both their earpieces._

_"We have found Colonel Sheppard. We will need a medical team to meet us at the Gate when we arrive."_

"Te…ed…team on standby…" _Weir's voice crackled a bit as the planet's natural magnetic field caused some disruption. _"Teyla, Ronon…copy?"

_"We are trying to reach the Colonel, Dr. Weir. Ronon is attempting to disable the energy field that is preventing us from getting to him."_

_Ronon did not add anything; he simply continued to work. A shower of sparks and a green arc of energy jolted the Satedan, staggering him back several paces. Anyone else would have been immediately dropped, unconscious or perhaps even dead; Ronon simply shook his head a little, blinking a bit to clear his vision. He vaguely heard Teyla asking if he was all right._

_"Fine," he grunted as he shook his head again. "It's rigged to deliver a charge if tampered with."_

_"They will know we are here!"_

_"They already do," Ronon spit back. "This was done knowing we would come for him." He simply drew his weapon, and aimed at the offending mechanism. There was not enough time for finesse. Likely whoever was watching this cell was already on the way. The field crackled, then dissipated and Ronon charged into the small room._

_Ronon was already kneeling beside the semi-conscious colonel when Teyla entered the cell, still keeping her weapon at the ready. "John?" Teyla said anxiously, dropping to one knee briefly to press the fingers of her free hand to Sheppard's throat. "He is alive," she breathed out, relieved, but immediately stood up again, both hands on the P-90._

_Ronon could see fresh blood in various places, dried blood in others, including some of the matted patches in Sheppard's hair. The colonel's black tee shirt was ripped and stained, and his face tight with pain. His head rested on his left arm, which stretched away from him, the hand lying at an odd angle. His right arm was wrapped protectively around his midsection, and through the torn shirt deep bruises were visible; it was no wonder that Sheppard was holding his stomach._

_Impulsively he laid one of his large hands on Sheppard's forehead; he was startled when the colonel sluggishly flinched. A faint, but very painful sounding groan followed._

_"We are getting you out," Ronon promised the battered man, although he could not be sure Sheppard could hear him, let alone understand him. Carefully Ronon worked his arms beneath Sheppard's back and beneath his knees. Another very faint—but slightly more urgent—cry of pain emerged as Ronon began to cautiously move him. Abruptly Sheppard went limp, the pain overwhelming his last shred of consciousness._

_Ronon nearly cringed as he made his way to his feet, bearing the colonel in his arms. Despite being careful, he had felt broken bones shifting in Sheppard's ribcage. It was also more than apparent to him that Sheppard was far too thin; it was a much simpler thing to lift him than Ronon might have otherwise expected._

_"Get back!" Teyla yelled suddenly, darting into the hall briefly to exchange fire with whoever was coming down the hall. She ducked back in, glancing at Ronon and his unconscious charge before running back out and firing again. This happened once more before she called "Come on! We must get him back to Atlantis."_

"Ronon?" Carson's hand was on his forearm, Ronon suddenly realized, and he glanced up, somewhat annoyed. "I lost ye for a spell. Are ye all right, honestly now?"

"He was too light," Ronon explained, his attention focused back on the unconscious figure before him. "It was too easy to lift him." Carson seemed slightly startled that Ronon would answer him at all, let alone with something like that, but the physician nodded sympathetically.

"The important thing is that ye got him here, son," Carson said quietly, but emphatically. "Ye did ye'r part, and I swear ta ye that we're doin' _ours_." Ronon looked at the physician, taking stock of the shorter man's earnest expression. He nodded shortly after a moment, indicating he trusted Carson's word.

"Take care of him," Ronon's charge was both gruff and direct, and then the Satedan did something he had never shown another living soul in Atlantis. He curled his fingers into a loose fist over his heart, and after a short pause, moved his hand palm out to rest carefully against John Sheppard's chest. It was a gesture of kin among his people, or more often, a sign of respect between soldiers fighting the Wraith.

It had been a very long time since Ronon had felt like he knew anyone worthy of that respect. Standing here, next to the first person in years who had invested time and trust in him, Ronon vowed silently that he would not fail that trust again as he gathered his hand back up to his own chest in tight fist. Without another word, Ronon slipped past Carson and strode from the infirmary, leaving the doctor to wonder at what he'd just witnessed.

* * *

Teyla turned over restlessly, seeking a more comfortable position on her bed. She was learning to master the disturbing connection with the Wraith; the nightmares did not plague her as they once did. No, these dreams were much different in nature, though no less unsettling.

At last Teyla simply opened her eyes, staring into the darkened room around her. Each time she closed her eyes it seemed, she was confronted with nightmarish images of John Sheppard's battered body lying in that stark, cold cell. Her mind even went so far as to manufacture his attackers, although her dream did not reveal their faces; she could only see merciless hands reaching menacingly.

Teyla rolled over now, lying on her back and staring upward briefly before reaching for the small lighting device of her people, igniting a nearby candle. It cast a warm glow about her room, and she watched the small flame flicker along, allowing it to calm her thoughts in the aftermath of the chilling dream. Relaxing at last, Teyla sat up, drawing her knees up and clasping her arms around them.

After all she had seen at the hands of the Wraith, all she had seen in her life, Teyla could not have said what it was in particular about John Sheppard's situation that so deeply affected her. Troubling dreams had followed the loss of her parents for several months when she was young, but it was a rare thing after that. Even with the awakening of her ability to hear the Wraith, she had not experienced any nightmares revolving around people to whom she felt connected.

_It matters little whether there is an explanation or not_, Teyla mused as she turned her head in such a manner as to both rest it on her knees and still see the candle burning cheerfully along, _the fact still remains that you fear for him_. That much was very true. She could feel it, the tight knot of anxiety that had formed when the return mission to the Isturans went so terribly wrong, and still remained within her despite finding and rescuing John alive. _Something is wrong_.

_"Something is wrong!" Ronon shouted to be heard over the rising wind and Teyla edged closer to speak with him. The firestorm was bearing down on them, and on the orders of Colonel Sheppard they were doing their best to get the Isturan villagers to the safety of an underground tunnel system the recon team had discovered only two days prior. "Sheppard and McKay should have returned by now!"_

_Teyla made a quick sweep of the area around them with her eyes, even as she urged a family with two small children to hurry into the complex below. She coughed a bit; even from here the smoke was growing thicker._

_"They will be here!" she shouted back; the wind and the approaching blaze were louder than she could have imagined. "We must give them a little more time!"_

_"I don't think we can!" Ronon hunched his shoulders briefly; stinging eyes blinking hard. "The fire is moving too fast!"_

_The winds had picked up and shifted, sending the ravenous wildfire toward the Stargate. Uncertain of the Gate's survival, John had devised a plan to use the puddlejumper—originally brought on this visit to ferry some supplies as a sign of goodwill—to blast out a firebreak around the Gate. John's orders to Ronon and Teyla had been to continue helping Yin'e to get his people into the underground complex._

_Still, Teyla felt nearly as uneasy as Ronon at the fact that the other half of their team was unaccounted for in the face of a firestorm of the likes she had never seen. Teyla pressed her earpiece, activating the channel._

_"Colonel Sheppard? This is Teyla, come in." Only static answered in both their earpieces. "Dr. McKay? Colonel Sheppard!"_

_"Something is wrong!" Ronon shouted again and Teyla had to agree with him. She turned quickly and caught the sleeve of Yin'e, the Isturan Prime Voice, turning him to face her._

_"Do you think you can get the others below without us?" she shouted, and Yin'e's open features creased into a deep, concerned frown._

_"The fire is upon us!" he called back, his other hand coming up to clasp Teyla's shoulder. "You will not be safe out here!"_

_"We do not have time to argue," Teyla replied firmly. "Our people are missing and we are unable to contact them. It is not safe for them, either! We must find them." Teyla turned Yin'e now, and nudged him toward the people still streaming toward the entrance of the complex. "We will be careful!" She promised, and with that turned away with Ronon to head back in the direction of the jumper._

_They had to make the way back carefully; some places along their original trek to the village from the jumper were already ablaze, ahead of the main path of the wildfire. The smoke was growing thicker, and the hike more perilous._

_"They may have taken shelter in the jumper if they could not take off," Ronon noted, and Teyla nodded her agreement._

_"Perhaps," she replied but despite the growing heat she felt something akin to a chill travel up her spine. She pressed her earpiece again. "Teyla to Colonel Sheppard, come in! Colonel Sheppard!"_

_"This way." Ronon pointed out another path upward, around another hot spot in the fire line._

_Suddenly, there was a faint crackle over their earpieces. Despite time rapidly dwindling away, Teyla and Ronon both paused, listening carefully. "Colonel Sheppard?" At last, a faint groan could be heard._

_"Tey…Teyla…"_

_"Dr. McKay?" Teyla glanced at Ronon when there was no further response. "Dr. McKay!"_

_The two of them moved even faster now, scrambling up the slope toward the Stargate, where they had left the puddlejumper for the walk to the Isturan village. When they arrived, the jumper was unseen, still cloaked as it turned out. Not far from the Stargate, however, lay the crumpled form of Rodney McKay._

_Instantly Ronon had his weapon out, watchful, while Teyla knelt beside the physicist, and gently turned him over. Rodney's face was deathly pale, except for a long thin gash seeping blood along his temple. Thankfully, the scientist was breathing. "He is only unconscious."_

_"Where is Sheppard?" Ronon ground out, his eyes already scanning around them, looking for signs of the Colonel's whereabouts. Teyla looked up as well, that cold feeling returning despite the perspiration trickling down the back of her neck. The fire was close, too close._

_"We have to get McKay into the jumper," Teyla urged. "He is hurt and the fire is getting closer." She looked up; Ronon was heading toward the Gate. "Ronon!"_

_The Satedan abruptly knelt down on the ground, perhaps three or four paces from the DHD. Despite her better judgment, Teyla rose and joined him, coughing a bit as she did so._

_"They were here." Ronon said simply, his hand passing just barely above a set of several footprints. One set distinctly belonged to Colonel Sheppard's military boots; Teyla knew that signature tread just as well as Ronon did. "Over there, look."_

_Teyla's breath caught in her throat as she saw the dark stain in the grass; there was no question that it was blood. Beyond it, there was evidence of someone being dragged—through the Stargate_.

Teyla sighed softly; they had been fortunate the capricious winds had shifted once more, allowing them to dial the Gate and carry the injured Rodney back to Atlantis, as well as to send a team back to help the Isturans, retrieve the jumper, and carry out Sheppard's firebreak plan. Upon regaining consciousness in the Infirmary, suffering a badly separated shoulder and mild smoke inhalation, Rodney couldn't remember having called out Teyla's name.

What he _had_ remembered had been far more important. The search for John Sheppard was on.

The candle continued to burn; the tiny flame danced along, casting shadows along the far wall. Teyla frowned just slightly as she watched the flickering light, and gradually she lifted her head, staring as realization broke over her.

"The fire was deliberately set," Teyla murmured thoughtfully. Why it hadn't occurred to them before now, Teyla wasn't sure, but the longer she considered it now, the more certain she became that the wildfire that had destroyed the Isturans' village had been purposefully started.

Quickly and quietly, the Athosian rose and extinguished the small candle, and then left her room.

* * *

Nearly four in the morning local Atlantis time saw more than just Teyla roaming the halls; Rodney was making his way to the Infirmary in a near daze. When Elizabeth had arrived at the lab some two hours prior, his efforts at distraction had resulted in papers covering practically the entire work area, the figures not only involving the puddlejumper project, but some others as well. It was enough to prompt Elizabeth to comment that it looked like a paper blizzard had attacked the lab, as quite a number of crumpled versions also littered the floor directly around him.

McKay's response had been to ask if she'd heard anything further on Colonel Sheppard. To which Weir had simply nodded and launched into telling him what she knew of Sheppard's condition from Beckett so far, and then practically ordered McKay to bed. The blizzard, she said, would keep until he'd had a few hours' rest.

He'd tried; honestly he had, to sleep. It quite simply refused to come, and coupled with the limited ability to get comfortable thanks to the shoulder, it had finally driven Rodney from his quarters in a distracted sort of wandering. Well, perhaps not quite _wandering_; after all, he did have a chosen destination.

A destination that, he realized with a start, he had now reached. Blinking away the brain fog, Rodney slipped into the Infirmary, somewhat awkwardly and definitely not silently as he nearly tripped over his own two feet. _Definitely tired_, some part of his mind seemed to tell him.

"Rodney?" Carson's soft brogue interrupted his thoughts, and Rodney looked up to see the physician approaching him, a concerned look on his face despite their occasional sparring matches over medicine as a science. "Are ye alright? Shoulder keepin' ye up?"

"No," Rodney answered first, then frowned, and shook his head slightly. "Well, yes but…no." He realized he was making no sense whatsoever, a rarity to be sure and he explained himself, "I normally sleep on my right side. Little difficult to do at the moment."

"Understandable." Carson agreed, although the doctor was already ushering Rodney over to a gurney. "Let's take a look, hmm? Are ye in much pain?" He patted the thin mattress, indicated that Rodney should get up onto it.

"Do you have any idea how much work this is with just one hand?" McKay grumbled as he pushed himself up onto the gurney. Beckett nodded just a little.

"Perhaps a wee bit o' effort," He couldn't resist the slight dig. "Sit still a minute and let me take off the sling." Carson very carefully worked the supportive sling away from the injured arm, and motioned to McKay to unbutton the top portion of his shirt. The few button-down knit shirts McKay owned composed his entire wardrobe at the present; he didn't even want to _think_ about having to deal with a pullover. Rodney fumbled awkwardly with his left hand to undo the buttons.

"Oh for pity's sake," McKay groused unhappily. "We can't _all_ be right-handed."

"Rodney…aren't _ye_ right-handed?" Carson pointed out as he gently pulled back the shirt in order to examine the physicist's healing shoulder.

"Only on a normal day," Rodney flinched a little, hissing sharply. "Except I'm not having any of those for the next _six months_. Ow!"

"Take it easy, Rodney. I've barely even touched ye." Carson chided lightly, reaching overhead to pull an extendable lamp closer from the wall where it had been mounted for better light. "Well, the bruisin' is breakin' up."

"That's just great for the photo spread in GQ," McKay quipped blandly, but he winced as Beckett began to check him over in earnest. "But it hurts like crazy."

"Inflammation, most likely. Ye need ta let ye'r shoulder rest. And I dinna mean just cartin' it around in a sling. Ye need ta go easy, Rodney," Carson pressed. "Have ye been takin' the pills I gave ye for the pain and swellin' like I told ye?"

"What is that…blue pills every four hours and the white ones every six? Or was that the other way around?"

"If it was the other way around, ye'r blood would be so thin ye would a' bled ta death by now." Carson rolled his eyes. "The white ones are anti-inflammatory and the blue ones are for the pain. I'll get ye somethin' for the ache, but come mornin' I want ta run another scan on ye, check it over thoroughly." The physician shook his head slightly. "I swear ye must a' been takin' lessons in stubborn from Colonel Sheppard. _Take_ the medicine." Carson's last comment was spoken almost instinctively; Sheppard was notorious for being a rebellious patient.

McKay, however, did not miss the slight frown that crossed Beckett's face as the doctor pulled the shirt back up over the shoulder, and carefully settled the sling back into place. Despite the occasional yelp, hiss or insult to Carson's parentage during the relatively short process of settling the limb back into the sling and swallowing the pain pills, the scientist did not detour from the question most on his mind now that the door was open.

"Colonel Sheppard wake up yet?" Rodney asked as casually as he could while fussing with the buttons of his shirt; fastening the buttons with only his left hand was proving just as frustrating as unfastening them.

As with Ronon earlier, Carson had expected it. In fact, he expected that the shoulder had simply been a convenient excuse for Rodney to make a "subtle" attempt at checking on the injured colonel. Exhaling slowly, Carson reached over to help with the last pair of buttons.

"Nae yet, Rodney."

The simple answer produced an immediate reaction in McKay; the scientist's crestfallen expression ruining any semblance of "casual concern," and he didn't even respond to Beckett buttoning him up like a five-year-old.

"What…what does that mean?" Rodney sputtered at last, looking around them now in an unashamed attempt to locate the patient in question. "That he's more brain-damaged than usual now, or what?" The attempt at sarcasm to cover his obvious anxiety was blunted by the tense look that now appeared on Carson's face. "Oh, no…" Rodney swallowed tightly, a precursor to blossoming into a full-blown panic.

"Calm down, Rodney," Carson cautioned, raising one hand to the physicist's good shoulder. "I dinna mean ta worry ye more than ye already are." The doctor paused a moment. "Colonel Sheppard _does_ have a pretty nasty concussion…"

"…But?" Rodney interrupted, watching Carson's face anxiously. "There's always a 'but' to these things…I think it's part of the Hippocratic Oath or something."

"But," Carson continued with a look that clearly said _be quiet and let me finish_, "I dinna think the head injury itself is the reason he's still unconscious." Carson waited for that to sink in with Rodney before continuing, "He was given a type of drug, likely somethin' ta break down his resistance ta interrogation."

Rodney swallowed hard once more, staring openly at Beckett as if the physician had grown a second head. "You don't know what it is, do you?" He asked at last, his voice having gained nearly a fourth of an octave, ratcheting upward along with his burgeoning panic attack.

"I've been studyin' its chemical composition, but it's unlike anythin' I've ever run into," Beckett confirmed, and was treated to a patented McKay wave-off as the physicist's mind rolled into high gear.

"What about the Ancient database? Have we checked in there? This _is_ another galaxy, after all, with who-knows-what kind of poisons and chemical compounds. I need to get a research team down here; there might be…"

"Rodney!" Carson exclaimed with an exasperated sigh, and the physicist shut his mouth sharply.

"I…I'm just worried about getting him through this." Rodney finally replied, although his voice had lost none of its nervous energy. "Preferably as the John Sheppard we _know_ and not…permanently weird or something. More than he usually is, I mean."

"So 'm I," Carson assured firmly. "Trust me ta do my job."

"Right…right." McKay waved him off again, but this time it was less impatience than it was resignation. "Witch doctors and medicine men." However, there was none of the usual bite in the remark, and Beckett recognized it as the truce it was.

"I've already begun ta search the Ancient database for anythin' that might help," The doctor added his own peace offering. "I'll know a lot more what we're up against when he _does_ come 'round."

Rodney looked up, then, and saw the truth of it in Carson's eyes.

"_If_ he does," he said quietly, adjusting the sling in a nervous gesture. "Can I…?"

"See him? Of course ye can, Rodney. C'mon, then," Carson motioned for the Canadian physicist to follow along. Rodney hesitated briefly, pulling in a fortifying breath before sliding off the gurney and trailing the Scottish medical doctor to the bedside of John Sheppard.

Despite the deep breath, Rodney was completely unprepared for the sight that met his eyes; bruises and bandages, oxygen and IV's… "Good Lord," he murmured softly, almost unaware that he'd spoken aloud. "He looks terrible." Rodney's eyes were locked on the bruised, stilled face. "I mean, Elizabeth _said_ he was in bad shape, but…" He closed his eyes briefly as he realized Sheppard must have looked far worse on first arriving. When he looked back over at Carson, the doctor wore a sympathetic expression.

"I know."

"Is it okay if I stay here awhile?" Rodney asked; his attention back on John. "I mean, you might need some help translating stuff from the database." A faint smile crossed Carson's features; intent on the colonel, Rodney missed seeing it.

"That would be quite alright, I'm sure. I'll get ye a chair."

The moment the chair was available to him, Rodney pulled it close and settled down beside John. For a long moment, he simply stared at the unconscious colonel before he glanced away.

"I'm sorry," Rodney murmured, fidgeting slightly. "I mean…they say people in comas can hear what's going on around them, so I'm counting on that because you _know_ you're not getting this out in front of anybody else." Silence. Rodney cleared his throat slightly. "I mean, after all, it wouldn't be a good idea to start something. Because then you'd be expecting it _all_ the time, and why should I apologize for being smarter than you?" Looking back up at the motionless pilot, Rodney sighed softly. "Well…for what it's worth, I'm sorry. You'd better just wake up and talk to me so I can go back to being brilliant. I have important work to do around here, you know."

Back at the workstation where he'd been laboring over the puzzle of the mysterious toxin, Carson glanced up, wondering if Rodney was aware that John was not the only one possibly overhearing him. Settling down to work once more, he had to wonder briefly at the strange friendship that had sprung up between the maverick military pilot and the nearly neurotic astrophysicist. While Carson worked, Rodney talked. Silence was far too uncomfortable, sitting there next to his unconscious companion, so McKay filled it with a running, one-sided conversation.

He was explaining some obscure permutation in quantum theory that would render some idea of Zelenka's useless when the first light of dawn began to break over Atlantis nearly two hours later. Pausing in his monologue, McKay exhaled softly and reached over, clasping Sheppard's right wrist with his good hand. "C'mon, Sheppard. The least you can do is look at me and tell me how badly I'm boring you," he grumbled lightly, but his attention was focused on the colonel's slack features, the soft sound of breathing beneath the oxygen mask. Unbelievably, Rodney felt a slight twitch beneath his fingers, and he breathed in sharply, uncertain if he had truly felt John stirring or if he was imagining it. "Wake up, wake up…" he breathed out.

A faint moan answered him, almost too faint to be heard beneath the plastic oxygen mask, but it was followed by a slight tightening of John's features into a vague expression of pain. Rodney released his grip on John's wrist and shot up from the chair, anxious energy propelling him to find Carson.

"Rodney?" Beckett on his feet instantly, feared the worst, until he caught sight of McKay's grin.

"He's coming to," Rodney declared, and Carson quickly joined him in the critical care suite. Sheppard's expression had relaxed once again, but the evidence of Rodney's assertion was there; the colonel had turned his head very slightly on the pillow.

"Colonel?" Carson prompted gently. "Colonel Sheppard, can ye hear me, laddie?" The slight frown returned, and was accompanied by another soft moan, this one a little more audible. Carson glanced at Rodney, who was wearing an incredibly hopeful expression, and then leaned in a little, laying his hand on John's shoulder. "Come on, now, try ta open those eyes; we want ta see ye."

"He's right, y'know," Rodney chimed in. "I'm tired of you ignoring me." That drew another pained moan, a tight wince. Carson glanced up at McKay and made a small shushing motion.

"Soft, now. He's liable ta have a rotten headache." When Carson glanced back down, he found one hazel eye cracked open and blinking dazedly, the right one still nearly swollen shut, and a right hand impatiently pulling at the oxygen mask.

"_Rotten…is…an under…statement,_" Sheppard murmured weakly. Relieved to see him conscious, Beckett smiled at his patient and helped take off the irritating mask. Now that Sheppard had regained consciousness, a nasal oxygen line would work as well.

"We were beginnin' ta think ye might sleep for a week," he said warmly, but he kept his hand at John's shoulder, a calming gesture. "Aside from the headache, how d' ye feel?" Carson knew it _sounded_ like a very stupid question, given the circumstances, but gauging a patient's condition involved the patient's input as much as anything.

"_Like…like I killed…the bird,_" Sheppard swallowed thickly, trying to get a handle on the various aches and pains screaming at him all at once. "_Where…am I?_" He tried to lift his head, got a simple, gentle push back into the pillow and stabbing pains in his chest for his effort. "_Ohhh, crap, that hurts._"

"Easy, now. Ye'r in the Infirmary, son. Ye have a concussion and some broken ribs, so I want ye ta lie still. Breathe as deep as ye can, but take it easy. Nice, even breaths." Carson instructed.

"Killed what bird?" Rodney wanted to know, puzzled by Sheppard's confused answer to Beckett's question.

"_Chopper,_" John murmured as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "_Please…tell me…I didn't. Bad enough…I'm being…shipped…off to…McMurdo…_" His breathing grew a little ragged, and his face screwed up into a sharp grimace of pain.

"Shh, now, Colonel," Carson interrupted, despite being unable to keep the worry off his face. "Ye need ta rest. No more talkin' for now, if ye please."

"_Major, Doc_," John interrupted back; blinking dazedly, and swallowing back a wave of nausea. "_Major John Sheppard_." Carson felt his throat constrict; this wasn't exactly what he'd expected of Sheppard's waking, and as he glanced up to see Rodney standing there open-mouthed as if to catch the flies, he knew he wasn't the only one.

"John," Carson felt a little safer with that at the moment. Despite his injunction to the colonel to rest and not talk, he had to know. "What's the last thing ye remember clearly, son?"

Sheppard's eye closed, the pale face drawing into a frown of concentration, before the left eye opened dazedly again, seeking the doctor's face. "_Takin' up…Apache…Ringer wanted…engine…repair tested_."

"Not good…" Rodney mumbled at last, and Carson shot him a look that said _not now_.

"John," Carson continued gently, "When are ye s'posed ta report ta McMurdo?"

"_Two…two weeks_," Sheppard answered softly, tiredly and Carson knew that was all he'd get from the injured pilot for now. He patted the colonel's shoulder lightly.

"Well, we will no' worry about that right now," The physician promised with as reassuring a smile as he could produce. "For now, ye need rest and plenty of it."

"_Hurts…to breathe_," John mumbled to Carson, a sure sign that the pain was indeed considerable if his most stubborn patient was admitting to it. Sheppard's respiration was a little shallow, a natural reaction to the sharp ache as the damaged rib cage was forced to expand and collapse with each breath.

"Aye, that it will for awhile, Col—Major," Carson caught himself for the moment; they needed to deal with one thing at a time. "I'll get ye somethin' for the pain. Try ta breathe a little slower and deeper if ye can; it'll help the hurt not ta be so much." Carson moved now to replace the oxygen mask with the nasal line. John weakly tried to bat the doctor's hands away, but the Scotsman was getting quite experienced at dealing with this particular patient. "Dunna fight me on this, laddie; ye will no' have ta work so hard ta breathe."

Those seemed to be the magic words; Sheppard stopped resisting, another indication of how much pain he was in, and despite still looking a little like a fish out of water, McKay couldn't help but wince sympathetically. Beckett worked the oxygen line behind his patient's ears and slipped it into place. By the time he returned to add pain medication to one of the IV lines, the eyes were both closed and the colonel was noticeably concentrating on getting air into his lungs in a less agonizing manner.

Rodney had taken up his place beside the bed once more.

"Now…" McKay said, very quietly as he watched Beckett administer the painkiller, "…we know what we're up against."

"Aye; that we do."


	2. Chapter 2

TWO

"He doesn't remember anything?" Elizabeth sat back, stunned, as Carson paced around her office.

"Nay, Elizabeth. I dinna say _that_," Carson corrected, slowing his steps to look directly at Elizabeth. "Colonel Sheppard knows _who_ he is…exceptin' his current rank. What he's a wee bit fuzzy on is _where_ he is…and _when_ he is. He thinks he's still on Earth, and worse than that, he thinks he's back a coupla years, _prior_ ta arrivin' in Antarctica."

Weir exhaled slowly and deliberately, trying to get a handle on the bombshell Beckett had just delivered. In all her worry over Sheppard's condition, she had not considered the possibility of amnesia, partial or otherwise. "Do you think the memory loss is connected with his head injury?" she asked finally.

"It's _possible_," Carson admitted, resuming his pacing. "However, while the concussion he received was fairly serious, the initial CT dinna indicate the level of physical trauma I'd normally expect o' such severe memory displacement. Usually such an injury might produce a loss of several minutes, perhaps a couple hours at most. Near ta three whole years o' his life is quite a jump."

"How is John aside from his memory?" Elizabeth asked now, her eyes tracking Carson's movements back and forth in front of her desk.

"His condition is still serious, and he's in a good bit o' pain. But he's holdin' his own, thank goodness," Carson's relief at that was plain to hear in his voice. "He was pretty shaky at the start, but his vitals are beginnin' ta stabilize nicely." However, the physician's pacing continued, and Elizabeth frowned slightly.

"What aren't you telling me?" she asked now, leaning forward on her desk, a posture that indicated she wanted to know whatever it was, and quickly. Beckett sighed softly, and finally stopped pacing altogether, taking the chair before Weir's desk.

"The unknown element in all o' this is the neuro-toxin. The levels in Colonel Sheppard's bloodstream indicate several doses over a period o' time, includin' a massive one perhaps a few hours before he was rescued," Beckett began to explain. "The chemical signature is not anythin' I recognize from home or even from Pegasus. Rodney is helpin' ta search the Ancient database for anythin' that might give us an idea what we're dealin' with." The Scotsman sighed softly. "What worries me is that I dunna know what ta expect from it. Right now, some o' the Colonel's symptoms—like the memory loss—could be just as easily caused by his injuries as they could be by the drug. And right now, it _appears_ ta be in a sort o' dormant state."

"Dormant?" Weir echoed, frowning slightly.

"Aye," Carson nodded and folded his arms across his chest, a sign of his discomfort with the situation. "But now that Colonel Sheppard has regained consciousness, it may turn in ta a different matter. I'll just have ta keep a close watch on him."

Elizabeth offered the doctor a slight, mirthless smile. "At least this time John can't sneak out on you." Her attempt at levity drew a tired chuckle from the Scotsman.

"Aye, there is that."

Weir reached up and rubbed weary eyes. "And now, for something completely different…we have a new wrinkle in all this that John's amnesia will definitely complicate."

Carson frowned heavily. "What…_wrinkle_ would that be, lassie?"

"Colonel Caldwell has returned with the _Daedalus_," Elizabeth answered, looking up from her hand now. "To conduct an 'incident review' for the SGC."

"Are ye serious?" Beckett's exclamation was accompanied with a scowl of the likes that one who knew him well would not expect of the gentle-mannered physician. "It's no' as if we have no' had 'incidents' before now. This whole _expedition_ has been nothin' but one bloody long incident if ye ask me."

Elizabeth was hard-pressed to control the smile twitching at her lips despite her mounting concerns over John and what the loss of his memory could mean to the Atlantis base as a whole. It was rare, and she had to admit, slightly amusing, to see Carson Beckett get this worked up. "Well then, it's fortunate that the SGC _isn't_ asking you," she quipped, and the doctor flushed slightly, although his outrage remained firmly in place.

"Who put 'em up ta it?" he demanded grumpily, "Kavanagh?" Weir exhaled.

"I have to admit the thought has crossed my mind, but I don't know yet," she replied. "That aside, Carson, I need to make an important request of you."

Beckett's frown shifted a little, his expression becoming more puzzled than perturbed.

"And what would that be?"

"Caldwell doesn't need to know about the toxin. John's situation will need enough damage control as it is."

The doctor's eyebrows now shot upward, surprise blossoming over his features now. "The neuro-toxin is the most unpredictable factor in Colonel Sheppard's 'situation,' as ye put it. Are ye certain that ye want ta be keepin' it from Colonel Caldwell?"

"For now," Elizabeth confirmed. "Until we know more, I don't want to give him any more ammunition than necessary."

"Ammunition?" Carson echoed, his frown returning slightly. Politics were not his strong suit; he preferred staying out of the line of fire, so to speak. "What d' ye think he's after, Elizabeth?"

"Maybe nothing," Weir replied, although inwardly she couldn't help but think, _maybe everything_. "I just don't want this blowing up in our faces." _If we can help it_, her mind added dutifully.

Beckett inhaled slowly, and nodded before sighing.

"Aye," he agreed at last. "I understand, lassie. He will no' hear a word about it from me. I'll make sure Rodney is aware of it as well."

"Thank you, Carson," Weir did smile a little, now; she had good people under her, and for that she couldn't be more grateful. "I'll stop by a little later to check on John, and I'm going to speak with Dr. Heightmeyer about his condition as well. I'm sure this is going to be…difficult for him to deal with, at best."

"That would be my next suggestion," Carson agreed as he rose. "It's rough enough around here _knowin'_ what we're up against, let alone havin' no clue about the Stargate or travelin' ta other galaxies."

"Or the Wraith," Elizabeth added. "I'll talk with you later. Keep me posted."

"I will, indeed. For now I'll be headin' back ta my patient."

Elizabeth nodded, watching as Carson left her office for the Infirmary, but she didn't get much of a break before Teyla and Ronon barged in. Well, to be fair, _Ronon_ did the barging; Teyla simply waited outside the doorway for an acknowledgement.

"We need to go back," Ronon declared, and Elizabeth blinked twice before looking past the intimidating Satedan to the doorway behind him.

"Teyla? Please, come in," she invited, and the slim Athosian complied, stepping into the office and taking the seat so recently vacated by Carson. Looking from one to the other, gauging the amount of tension in each of them, Elizabeth decided that passing up the small talk would be best. "What's this all about, you two?"

"We need to go back," Ronon stated again, as if Elizabeth hadn't heard him the first time. It earned him a raised eyebrow as Elizabeth leveled him with a look that went along with her question,

"Back _where_?" she already didn't like the sound of this.

"Back to Istura," Teyla answered, which drew a stunned look from Elizabeth as she surveyed the pair before her.

"Wait. After everything that happened to John, and you want to go back?" Weir pressed, leaning forward with her arms on her desk. "I assume there's a…_logical_ reason for this request? I hope so, because it doesn't sound like it to me."

"There are questions that need answers," Teyla replied, her tone as convincing as she could make it. "And some of those answers are back on Istura."

"The fire was deliberately set." Ronon ground out, and that brought Elizabeth's head up sharply as she looked from Teyla to him.

"Are you sure?" she asked, and glanced back to Teyla.

"Mostly," Emmagan answered assuredly. "It _was_ a successful diversion to draw Colonel Sheppard and Dr. McKay away from the village and from us. And it was very…convenient that the underground complex was discovered by our team not long before the wildfire started."

"That seems pretty circumstantial to me," Weir hedged. "Too circumstantial to risk more of my people on it."

"Do you not wish to know why Colonel Sheppard was taken?" Teyla frowned slightly now, unconsciously echoing the heavy frown that Ronon wore as a matter of course. "We were unable to learn the _reason_ for his capture from the man we…questioned. Either he did not know the purpose behind his companions' actions…"

"…Or he was a very good liar," Ronon stated flatly.

"I _do_ want to know why John was captured," Elizabeth said, keeping her tone even and relaxed. "But I _don't_ want to lose anyone else trying to find out."

"If the fire _was_ set on purpose," Teyla reasoned, "That means it is quite possible that Colonel Sheppard's attackers had help from the Isturans."

"What about the picture?" Ronon brought it up again, the 'wanted' photograph that he'd found on their first visit to Istura. "It is _not_ coincidence," His voice rumbled.

"All right…maybe it's not," Weir admitted, trying to think it through. "But I'm not sending you until I'm sure it's the best thing to do. I don't want happening to you what happened to John."

"How is he?" Teyla's voice was softer, now, and Ronon quieted as well to hear what Elizabeth might know. "Has Dr. Beckett reported anything more?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," Elizabeth confirmed. "Carson says he's stable, but he has some serious injuries that will take time to recover from. And there's a couple complications…"

"Complications?" Ronon echoed menacingly and had she not trusted John's evaluation of the Satedan, Elizabeth might well have been looking for cover.

"Yes," she answered Dex directly. "First of all, John's been given massive doses of a substance Carson believes was meant to break down his resistance. It's something we've never seen before, so we don't know how it's going to affect John in the long term."

"Is it dangerous?" Teyla asked, blinking. The image of John crumpled in a heap on the cell floor flooded back to her mind.

"We don't know yet," Elizabeth answered bluntly. "The other problem is just as serious and could potentially be related. John is suffering from…severe memory loss. He currently does not remember the past two years; he does not know Atlantis, nor does he know us."

Ronon's scowl grew fiercer, if that was possible, and Teyla's eyes widened slightly in surprise.

"Will he get better?" Ronon asked bluntly, and Elizabeth looked up at him. Despite the deep frown marring his face, Elizabeth could have sworn she saw a flicker of uncertainty in the deep, probing gaze.

"We don't know," she answered honestly. "He's only regained consciousness a few hours ago, and Carson says it's far too soon to tell if John will regain his memories or not." Elizabeth's gaze dropped from Ronon's face to the surface of her desk as she spoke; she had trouble wrapping her mind around the fact that John Sheppard had no idea who they were, after everything that had happened in the past two years.

"I have never seen such a thing," Teyla admitted, glancing from Ronon to Elizabeth. "Is there anything we can do to help him?"

"If there is, I'm certain we will be advised of it," Weir answered reassuringly. "Carson is watching him carefully, and as his recovery progresses, I'm sure there will be things for us to do." She smiled a little, recognizing that Emmagan was somewhat uncomfortable with the idea of losing one's memories. "Right now, the most important thing we can do for John is let him rest. Carson says he's in a lot of pain, and it's going to take some time for his body to heal, let alone his mind. I'm sure Carson'll let us know when he's up to having regular visitors."

"I saw him last night," Ronon stated, and then shrugged his broad shoulders. "Well, this morning before the sun." The Satedan looked distinctly distressed, and that did not happen often. "He looked dead." Ronon's bluntness poorly disguised his concern if one knew how to look for it. Elizabeth was slowly learning.

"John will be all right," she asserted, realizing with a tight swallow that she needed to hear that as much as anyone right now. "We have to hold onto that. He's going to _need_ us to hold onto that." Elizabeth held Ronon's gaze for a long moment before continuing, "In the meantime…"

"In the meantime, we must return to Istura and get the information we need to help put Colonel Sheppard's life back together." Teyla interrupted now, and there was a determination there that might well rival Ronon's. Elizabeth blinked and sat back.

"Let me consider it. There's more to this investigation now than just trying to put together the pieces. Colonel Caldwell has been authorized to conduct a probe of his own. I want you to cooperate with him, both of you. I've asked Carson to hold back any mention of the toxin John was given; we don't know enough about it yet, and until we do, I want that information to stay with us. Aside from that, answer any questions Colonel Caldwell may have for you honestly and completely. Understood?"

"Yes, Dr. Weir," Teyla confirmed, and Ronon simply gave a short, sharp nod of his head. Neither of them appeared to be terribly happy with having their request denied, but this early in the morning, with as little rest as she'd had, Elizabeth wasn't terribly happy having to consider it just yet. There was simply too much to sort out and she needed the time to do that before making any snap decisions.

"Good. Now let's do what we can to work this on our side of the Gate. _If_ it becomes necessary to mount a return expedition to Istura, I will certainly take your request under advisement."

"Right," Ronon grunted, his displeasure obvious, but in the absence of John Sheppard, he seemed a bit uncertain what to do with it. He knew Sheppard respected Weir, and that at the end of the day, Weir's decisions were supposed to be the ones that mattered. Still…the Colonel was her ranking officer. _Something_ needed to be done.

"Ronon," Elizabeth stood up, now, and despite being some inches shorter than the Satedan, she wore her mantle of authority well. "I wouldn't tell you if I didn't mean it." She said simply, and held his gaze. To her relief, Ronon just nodded once, and exited her office before Teyla even stood up.

"He is merely worried about John," Emmagan was also learning to 'read' Dex. "Ronon has been…restless since we brought him back." She rose now, and started toward the door.

"I think we all are," Weir replied. She reached for her coffee-cup, an almost constant companion these past few days. The caffeine had become a necessity. "I think when John's better, he owes us all one heck of an apology for all of this." The joke was lost on Teyla, however; she paused in the doorway, frowning.

"But all this is not his fault," she said, rather obviously, and Elizabeth could not help a small, tired smile at that.

"No, it's not," Weir agreed at last, keeping her tone light. "But _somebody_ needs to be blamed for all the sleepless nights."

Teyla seemed to understand now, and she nodded, a slight smile of her own appearing. "I am sure it will be." The Athosian slipped from her office, and Elizabeth sat back with her coffee and a sigh.

It might well be that Ronon and Teyla were right, that there was more to this than they could see on this side of the Gate, especially with the complication of John's amnesia. With Caldwell and the SCG breathing down her neck, however, Weir was unwilling to make that call just yet. There were still too many unknowns and she needed them close. _John_ needed them close, of that she had no doubt.

For now, Istura would have to wait.

* * *

Rodney's fingers moved rapidly along his data pad, the notebook having been retrieved from his lab while John slept, courtesy of the pain medication he'd been given. He was currently working on translating a section of the Ancient database that Beckett had indicated might be helpful, and indeed it gave him something more to do than talk the doctor's ears off while he waited.

He glanced up at his once-more quiet companion every so often, watchful for any signs of waking. The bruises on Sheppard's face still made Rodney wince to look at them, and he tried not to think about the fact that the colonel's memories did not currently include him or Atlantis or any of the impossible situations they'd gotten into—and back out of.

"You know," he muttered to himself as he bent back to his work, "With as much crowing as you did about that promotion of yours, the least you could do is remember it."

"We'll have ta be patient, Rodney," Carson remarked quietly as he stepped into the critical care area. Moving to the opposite side of the bed, he glanced at the monitor that continued to announce John's heartbeat. The soft steady beeps indicated a slower but much improved heart rate, and his fingers at John's wrist told him that the pulse was growing stronger. "It's goin' ta be fair ta overwhelmin' for him. 'Specially when he gets ta hearin' about all o' this. Think about how _ye'd_ react ta it," Carson pointed out as he prepared to take a blood pressure reading.

Rodney swallowed anxiously at that, and nodded slightly. It was a mental image neither of them particularly needed. "You have a point there," he admitted but none of the worry left his face. Rodney watched as Carson shifted his stethoscope to listen to John's heart and lungs. He found himself holding his breath while Carson moved the instrument carefully over various places on the bruised chest. "How's he doing?" he asked the moment Carson removed the stethoscope from his ears.

"His lungs are still clear. That's a vera good sign given the amount o' chest trauma," Carson admitted, pleased with that. "His pressure could stand ta come up, but it's much better than it was even an hour ago."

McKay brightened a bit at that; good news of any sort was like gold as far as he was concerned. "That's good then, right?"

"Aye," Beckett agreed, understanding the physicist's need to hear something hopeful. "Quite good, considerin' there's a long road ahead o' him," he tempered the gold with a bit of steel. John's recovery was going to take some time.

"How long do you think before he wakes up again?" Rodney couldn't help but ask; he missed John's sense of humor, even if it was often aimed at him.

"The morphine I gave 'im for pain will have 'im sleepin' awhile yet," The physician answered as he came around the end of the bed toward McKay. "At the present, sleep is the best thing for 'im."

McKay nodded slightly, his gaze on Sheppard's thin form. As much as he wanted the pilot to wake up, to talk with them, if Beckett said sleep was what the colonel needed, then he would wait as long as he had to wait. "He looks like a scarecrow," McKay muttered, as if looking for an excuse to fret. "Soon as he wakes up we need to get something into him before he evaporates right in front of us."

"We'll get ta that, Rodney, trust me," Carson promised; he too was concerned about the other aspects of the colonel's mistreatment but they would each have to be handled in turn. He motioned to the laptop. "How are ye comin' on that?"

Rodney registered the question nearly a half a minute after it had been asked; he blinked suddenly and shifted his attention from John to Carson. "Slowly," he admitted with a bit of a frustrated sigh. "I do have a fairly respectable grasp on Ancient—as opposed to Latin, Greek or my freshman Spanish course at MIT—but translating Ancient medical terminology to corresponding Earth terms is proving a little difficult and time-consuming." He punched up a set of commands and a block-shaped list of Ancient text popped up on the screen, which he now showed Carson. "I think I've found a sub-section of sorts on toxins but I'm lacking the companion section detailing symptoms or other identifying physical indications."

"Perhaps it's a table o' contents, o' sorts?" Carson suggested thoughtfully, "Rather than a detailed listin'?" He leaned down to peer at the screen Rodney was showing him; his own grasp on Ancient, as Rodney had put it, left a bit to be desired at times.

"As if I'd overlook something completely obvious…" McKay ran his fingers nimbly over the touch-screen and received an error message for his troubles—at least what passed as such in the Ancient database—and held the screen back up with his good hand for Beckett to see. "See? Nothing." He turned the notebook back to himself and typed in another string of commands preparatory to returning to his painstaking work. "This is why _you're_ the shaman and _I'm_ an actual scientist." McKay glanced up at Beckett now, just to see the usual exasperated look the Scotsman wore when his chosen scientific field was insulted. He was more than pleased to see it; it meant Sheppard's current condition truly was improved and a little of the pressure was off.

"Ye know, one o' these days ye'll be upon Death's door and ye'll be needin' me," Carson grumbled, but the battle was an old one, and also told him that Rodney was a little less panic-stricken than before. "Let me know when ye find somethin' useful." The physician returned to his own workstation, settling down with a sigh and a sip of tea before plunging back into his own search for answers.

A search that was promptly interrupted as the door to the Infirmary was keyed open and Colonel Caldwell strode in, looking far too awake and alert for someone who'd only slept perhaps a handful of hours. Carson couldn't help but yawn a little as he realized how close to the end of his own rope he really was. Only the fact that Colonel Sheppard's condition—despite marginal improvement—was still quite serious kept him on his feet and working. Dr. Suhaila had been quite correct about that; he would need a break soon.

"Good mornin', Colonel," Beckett decided to take the proactive approach to this; whatever conversation took place; it was his duty first and foremost to see to the best interests of his patient. "I'm afraid 'tis a wee bit early for any social calls."

At Sheppard's bedside, McKay's head snapped up at the physician's greeting, eyes sweeping over the unexpected morning visitor. Quickly his fingers ran across the touch screen again, this time shutting down the database search and replacing it with something much more innocuous.

"True, but this isn't exactly a social call," Caldwell replied, and his tone was confident, relaxed. "I thought I'd come down and ask you about Colonel Sheppard's prognosis."

Carson's eyebrows lifted slightly in askance, but despite his current ire over the SGC poking their nose into things via Caldwell, he was a professional, and would handle this like a professional.

"Colonel Sheppard is doin' better than he was when he was first brought back," Carson prefaced, rising to speak with _Daedalus'_ commander. "He's taken some rather nasty injuries, but he's in stable condition for the time bein'."

Caldwell's eyes narrowed slightly. "Just what do you mean by 'for the time being,' Doctor?"

"Colonel Sheppard was critical when he first arrived from the Gate Room," Carson explained bluntly. "His heart rate was all over the map, his blood pressure was in the basement, and he was unconscious for near ta eighteen hours."

Was that…slight concern traveling across Caldwell's normally impassive features? For a brief moment, watching from John's bedside, Rodney had to admit a little curiosity at that; it wasn't something the physicist normally equated with Colonel Steven Caldwell.

"How serious _are_ his injuries?" That Caldwell was even asking surprised McKay even further, and he unconsciously frowned a bit as Beckett launched into a patient explanation of damages visited upon Colonel Sheppard. The physicist blanched a little as he listened; it was the first time he had heard the detailed list himself.

"Must've been terrifying," McKay murmured softly to himself, slightly nauseated at the thought of what had been done to Sheppard to gain him that list of hurts. He swallowed nervously and looked down at the notebook lying in his lap. His shoulder throbbed with a growing ache; the pills taken in the pre-dawn hours were wearing off. Holding the notebook steady with his good hand, McKay shifted very carefully, trying to get more comfortable in the chair.

"_That…looks sore_," John's soft, almost breathy voice almost startled Rodney into dropping the notebook. The physicist regained his composure, and glanced back toward the main Infirmary area; Carson and Caldwell were still talking. Rodney set aside the notebook and turned toward the bed; he couldn't help the nervous smile that flitted across his features.

"So does that," Rodney answered, his left forefinger tracing just in front of his own right eye, indicating John's still rather swollen eyelid. "Somebody needs to teach you military types to quit running into doorknobs." Despite the ridiculousness of it, John chuckled softly—then groaned weakly as his chest protested the laughter. Rodney swallowed hard, his good hand going to the colonel's shoulder. "I'm sorry…I didn't mean to hurt you. Just relax…breathe, okay, just…breathe."

"_Anybody…ever tell you…to relax?_" John managed to get out between short breaths.

"Frequently," Rodney assured, his eyes darting anxiously around the injured colonel. "I just never take it very seriously. Are you okay?" Sheppard nodded very slightly, very cautiously, before licking dry lips. McKay patted his shoulder very lightly. "Of course…right. You're thirsty." Moving around to a nearby small table, Rodney carefully used the fingers of his injured arm to hold a small cup still while he poured some water into it with his left. Fumbling around he found the small straw that had been set nearby and plunked it into the cup.

John had such a grateful look on his face as Rodney drew closer with the cup that it almost made the physicist wince in sympathy. "You probably shouldn't drink it too fast, or something," he warned almost as an afterthought as he placed the straw between John's lips, allowing the colonel to sip at the cool liquid.

"_Thanks_," Sheppard murmured, and his voice sounded a little stronger for having the water soothe a very dry throat. He blinked slowly, tiredly. "_So, what happened?_"

McKay gulped anxiously, and blinked. _Now, what_? He wondered frantically. "I…uh…I didn't think you'd ask _me_ that…I mean, I don't know what I'm supposed to tell you…" The physicist stammered. Sheppard's eyebrows knit together in a vague, puzzled frown.

"_Your arm_," The pilot tried again. "_What happened…to your…arm_?" McKay was so relieved that it wasn't up to him to explain…_everything_…right in this moment that his knees nearly buckled. He gave Sheppard a self-depreciating smile.

"Happened to walk into a big stick," Rodney answered shakily. "Only slightly less embarrassing than running into doorknobs." What he didn't say was that the "stick" in question had carried something akin to a one-twenty volt charge and a blunt end that had the heft of a fifteen-pound weight. _Rodney!_ He could hear John's frantic shout once more, and he blinked the memory aside. "Never mind that. How are you feeling?" He watched, as John seemed to think it over.

"_Hurts_," he admitted. "_But not…too bad_." A faint smile twitched at Sheppard's lips. "_Doc has me…feelin' okay_."

"Can we say, 'morphine,' kids?" McKay quipped, but he had to admit he was relieved that Sheppard wasn't in terrible pain. He had never had broken ribs himself; he could only imagine how much it hurt the colonel with every single breath. It also, McKay realized, explained why the colonel hadn't really pressed him for any details about his injuries, or even to ask McKay who he was. Sheppard's mind was foggy enough to not necessarily _think_ about asking those questions.

"I will no' allow it!" Beckett's sharp brogue drew McKay's attention back out, away from Sheppard, to the physician and the commander of the _Daedalus_, standing nearly toe-to-toe with each other. "He's no' in any condition ta handle a bunch o' questions, no' from ye, or anyone else."

"Oh, so not good," Rodney murmured to himself. It looked to him as if Beckett actually might haul off and punch Caldwell, '_first, do no harm'_ or not. Despite the disparity in height and the glare that Caldwell was leveling at the physician, Beckett was not backing down, bristling like a Scottish porcupine. _Bad mental image_, Rodney chided himself, grimacing slightly. Deciding it would do no good to let the medical doctor get flattened by an irate military officer trained in unarmed combat, he glanced back at John. "Back in a minute," he reassured, but was relieved to see that, in the short lapse of conversation, John was almost asleep once again.

Readjusting his sling cautiously, Rodney headed out into the open area where the two men stood, neither of them budging an inch. "Hello, Colonel," he said, a forced cheerfulness in his tone. "Good to see you again." Caldwell spared him a glance, one that said: _Right and what have you been smoking lately_?

"Dr. McKay," The colonel greeted politely, and that was the only opening McKay needed.

"You know, Colonel, if you really need to talk to somebody about what happened out there, you can start with me. I was there, you see, when Colonel Sheppard was initially taken." The physicist nodded as if to confirm to Caldwell that he had indeed been present to witness Sheppard's capture and that whatever he had to say would be quite important.

"No' _here_ if I have anythin' ta say about it," Carson interrupted before Caldwell could even respond. "Ye are my patient, too." He motioned to Rodney's sling. "If Colonel Caldwell wants ta corner ye in ye'r lab, well then so be it, but he will no' do so in _mine_." There was an edge in Carson's voice that did not invite discussion. "Now, I still want ta take another look at ye'r shoulder this mornin', so go sit down."

McKay fairly gaped at Beckett; he hadn't expected the physician to circumvent his attempt to distract Caldwell from trying to debrief Colonel Sheppard. Beckett, on the other hand, turned back to Colonel Caldwell with a look that would melt ice.

"You don't have the authority to prevent me from conducting my investigation, Dr. Beckett," Caldwell replied evenly, arms folded across his chest.

"True," The Scotsman answered, his expression, tone and bearing all as taut as a bowstring. "But I _do_ have the authority ta have ye removed from my Infirmary if I feel ye are a danger ta my patients." Even Caldwell blinked at that, and Rodney stood as if rooted to the floor.

"You wouldn't dare," Caldwell finally replied, shifting his stance just slightly.

"D' ye want to put me ta the test, Colonel?" Beckett reached up and tapped the ever-present earpiece that all Atlantis personnel used. "Dr. Beckett ta Major Lorne." He initiated the contact, watching Caldwell as he did so.

"_Lorne, here_." The major responded instantly.

"All right, you've made your point," Caldwell's arms dropped to either side now and if possible the glare he gave the doctor was even more intense. "For now. When it's obvious that a few questions won't _endanger_ Colonel Sheppard, I'll be back." The colonel glanced over at the critical care area, noting that his window of opportunity had slipped by anyway; Sheppard appeared to again be asleep or unconscious. Without another word, he turned and strode from the Infirmary.

Carson exhaled in relief; he hadn't really wanted to call a contingent down to cart the colonel off.

"Never mind, Major," he finally said to Lorne. "I thought I might be needin' ye, but it's no' necessary."

"_Whatever you say, Doc_." Lorne signed off and Carson turned to find Rodney looking slightly shaky.

"When was the last time ye had anythin' ta eat?" he asked instantly, recognizing the familiar look the physicist took on when his sugar was close to bottoming out. Rodney blinked a moment; trying to catch up to the sudden shift in subject.

"Um. It's been…awhile, I guess," McKay finally answered, realizing that he had been at the translation work for some time. Lack of sleep and breakfast to this point were catching up to him. "I thought you were going to hit him." He motioned toward the now-closed door that Caldwell had exited.

Carson chuckled slightly.

"'Tis been awhile since me last pub brawl," he admitted, shrugging a little. "But Willie MacGregor remembers it a bit better than I do, I'm sure." Carson held up his right hand, pointed out a small scar running the length of his middle finger from the second knuckle down onto the back of his hand. "I got that from breakin' his nose."

"Enemy?" Rodney's eyebrows lifted slightly. "Irate former patient?" he asked, surprised, and was even more so when Carson broke into an honest-to-goodness grin and chuckled _again_.

"Nae; he's my best friend. Has been for years," The physician responded, somewhat cheerfully as the adrenaline from the confrontation with Caldwell wore off. "We went ta medical school together."

"Yet another reason for making a career out of something other than medicine," McKay quipped, but didn't get to follow up on it as he abruptly swayed on his feet. Instantly Beckett was at his side, steadying him and steering him toward the nearest chair.

"Sit down," Carson ordered, and Rodney, too lightheaded to argue, sat. A moment later there was a something being pressed into his good hand…one of his ever-present power-bars, he realized, already opened. "Eat," The doctor commanded once again. "I'll send for a proper breakfast for ye, but that'll do for the moment." He set a glass of water within reach of the physicist. "When ye are finished, we'll run another MRI on that shoulder."

Rodney bit into the power-bar, realizing as he did so just how hungry he really was. "Thank you," he offered around a mouthful of peanut butter power-bar; it was a rare thing for him to be absorbed to such a degree that he forgot to eat. "Sheppard's been awake," he announced after a few swallows of water and another bite. "You were wrapped up with Colonel Caldwell…"

"Aye, I know; he saw ye talkin' ta Colonel Sheppard and decided he wanted a crack at 'im, himself," Carson grumbled, looking past Rodney to the sleeping colonel. "I'm surprised, honestly, that he even stirred."

"He wasn't awake very long," Rodney confirmed. "Just a few minutes, really. Enough to ask what happened to me…" He pointed at the sling with what remained of the power-bar. "…And to have some water."

"What did ye tell 'im?" Carson wanted to know, as at this moment he didn't feel John was in any shape to deal with the added pressure of trying to recall three years of his life.

"Not much. Just that it was embarrassing," McKay shrugged with his good arm. "He was still really out of it." Beckett nodded.

"Aye, _that_ I expected," he confirmed.

Rodney chewed thoughtfully, nodding absently; his mind was already running ahead, considering the possible outcomes of the colonel's situation. None of them were particularly appealing. What if John couldn't recover his memories? What if his injuries were serious enough to leave permanent damage? What if the interrogation drug turned out to be dangerous or even fatal to him? _It can't stay dormant forever_; he mused anxiously. "_Rodney_."

McKay glanced up abruptly, realizing at last that his name had been called and he blinked at Beckett. "What?"

"I said, I'm ready ta check over ye'r shoulder," Carson said—again. "Breakfast is on the way, but in the meantime we can take care o' this."

"Can't it wait?" Rodney asked, standing up, but it had nothing to do with breakfast or even the claustrophobic feeling of having the scan so close to his face. "Colonel Sheppard might not have the time."

"Rodney, Colonel Sheppard is no' goin' anywhere else anytime soon. Ye might as well cooperate with me, if ye want ta be near 'im when he next wakes up."

"That's just it," Rodney protested, glancing back toward the bed in which John continued to sleep. "How do we know he's going to wake up again? How do we know that drug—or whatever it is—won't just kill him in his sleep or scramble his brain any more than it already has? Can we take that chance?"

McKay's tone was beginning once again to steam its way to an upper register indicative of growing anxiety, and Beckett simply put a calming hand upon the physicist's good shoulder.

"For one thing, we dunna know for certain if his memory loss is connected ta the drug," he pointed out as he firmly steered his recalcitrant patient toward the gurney he wanted McKay to park himself on for the exam. "And for another, I can guarantee ye, in the few minutes it'll take ta do this, ye will no' be all that farther along searchin'. Now, hop up."

Exhaling in what could only be described as a long-suffering sigh, McKay did his best to "hop."

* * *

_Thump…thump…thump_.

The first thing he was aware of was a steady, rhythmic pounding. _Can't they tone it down a little…_?

It took a few more moments before he realized the thumping was accompanied by a dull, insistent ache. Another moment or two and he also realized it happened to be his heartbeat, stubbornly throbbing its way through his skull like a whole row of bass drums in a military band.

"We're being as quiet as we can, John." The soft voice slid in between the strident pain beating through his head, and he sucked in a sharp breath as if startled, only to interrupt it with a choked groan.

"Easy, now, Major." _That_ voice he recognized as the doctor who had been here earlier. "Remember ta breathe slow an' easy as ye can."

John swallowed back the curse on the tip of his tongue as the reawakened fire in his chest reminded him with a vengeance that simple breathing might be better than speaking at the moment. Slowly he opened his eyes; this time his right eye seemed to cooperate a little better as he found he could see with both.

"It's good to see you awake." The feminine voice from a moment ago spoke in a near-whisper, in deference to his headache, and John found it joined by a face slowly coalescing in his line of sight and he felt a slender hand touch his right wrist.

"_How…long?_" he finally croaked out, and the warm, long fingers patted his wrist gently. John closed his eyes briefly; the touch of the straw on his lips prompted him to look back up at the slim woman at his side. He sipped gratefully at the water, but his eyes asked her to answer his question.

"You've been asleep most of the day," she answered him, still speaking softly. "It's almost eight at night."

"_Oh_." It was the only response he could think of at the moment, and he blinked dully.

"How are you feeling?"

"_How…do I look?_" he mumbled, a little irritated. How was he supposed to feel? His head was going to fall off and shatter any moment now. Breathing was an exercise in necessary torture.

"I suppose I deserved that," The soft voice continued. "We're just a little worried about you around here."

"_Sorry_," John grunted, closing his eyes. "_Hurts like a son of a…it hurts_," he finally muttered.

_Small wonder_, Elizabeth Weir thought to herself as she gazed down on the tired, bruised face.

"It's a wee bit too soon for ye'r next dose, Major, but we'll fix that up for ye shortly," Carson reassured. The pain medication was being meted out very carefully given the concussion and the strength of the drugs in question. "Try ta relax as much as ye can." John actually nodded, just a very little, indicating his hearing and understanding, but didn't bother reopening his eyes. That was just too much work.

"_So…_" he mumbled. "_I was wondering…how long it'd take…for the brute squad…to…show up_." John carefully turned his head toward the woman at his right and forced himself to make one eye work. "_Although…I have to…say that you're prettier…than the average…judge advocate_." He swallowed weakly. "_Ma'am_."

_Just_ in case she happened to outrank him.

"Judge advocate?" Weir echoed; trying to mask the disappointment she felt at the 'ma'am,' knowing that Sheppard didn't remember her. He blinked up at her, a vague frown marring his features.

"_Yeah…you don't…crash a forty-million dollar helo…without a little…backlash_," John said as if it was the most obvious thing going. "_I figured…you were here…to ask me some questions. Or something_." The frown deepened just slightly. "_Who are you, anyway_?" The woman drew in a slow, measured breath, glancing aside momentarily before turning back to him with some sort of resolve.

"I'm Dr. Elizabeth Weir," She prefaced, licking suddenly dry lips. "I'm not part of the JAG office, John." She shifted her stance a little bit, a nervous sort of gesture.

"_Shrink?_" John grumbled. "_Had enough of that already_." There certainly had been a few annoying visits after Afghanistan.

"No, John, I'm not a psychiatrist either," Elizabeth struggled to keep her voice relaxed. "And you haven't crashed a helicopter." She placed her hand upon his forearm once again, almost instinctively, as startled hazel eyes looked up at her. "Actually, you've been missing for three weeks. We found you and brought you back only yesterday." She waited now, allowing that information to sink in with him first.

"_What?_" Against any better, rational judgment, Sheppard tried to pick up his head, only to feel the drum corps in his brain increase in conjunction with a fiery protest through his chest. He dropped back onto the pillows with a short gasp.

"Easy, John!" Elizabeth instinctively moved her hand to his shoulder, looking up at Carson worriedly. Carson nodded shortly, with a look that said _you might as well finish what you've started_.

"_Brought me back…? _From _where_?" John demanded, around a cough and a distressed pair of breaths. "To _where? This…this…isn't…any…ow! …Military hospital_."

"Go easy, Col—Major Sheppard," Carson insisted, his hand on John's left shoulder now as well. "Those ribs will no' be happy with ye if ye keep abusin' 'em that way. Ye need ta take things slow."

"_And why…do you…keep calling me…Colonel_…?" John's voice was raspy; it hurt to talk. It hurt to simply be awake. "_What is…going on…around here?_"

"John." Elizabeth interjected again, and squeezed his shoulder to gain his full attention. "I will explain everything, but you _need_ to listen to Dr. Beckett and _just rest_. You're not in trouble, and no one is gong to hurt you here. Please."

It was the please…and the straw placed at his mouth…that finally got through to him, and John sipped at the water, and closed his eyes. "_All…right_," he finally agreed, although so softly he almost wasn't heard. Elizabeth waited, however, until the injured colonel's breathing was a bit less ragged before continuing.

"As I said, I'm Dr. Weir," she prefaced, but this time she did not look at Carson for any confirmation or encouragement; she kept her eyes on John and simply talked. "For the past two years, you have been my ranking military officer on a…joint scientific and military research project." They could get to the Pegasus galaxy later. For now it was good enough that he know they had been working together. "Dr. Beckett here," she motioned to Carson, "Is part of that project as well." John didn't open his eyes but the frown that reappeared on his face indicated the difficulty in wrapping his battered mind around what he was hearing.

"_Wait. Wait…just a…. minute, here_." John's right hand lifted just slightly, the first motion he'd made that didn't entail him trying to move anything that hurt. "_I can't be…part of any…joint anything. My new mailing address…is…in Antarctica. In case you…haven't heard_."

"And almost a _year_ after you arrived at McMurdo, you agreed to join my team." Weir replied patiently, carefully stressing the time variance between John's fractured memory and reality.

"_I…I don't understand,_" John felt uncharacteristically vulnerable, and now he did open his eyes once more—with what felt like a great deal of effort—and looked up at her in total confusion. The doctor that sounded like something straight out of _Braveheart_ reached out a hand toward Weir before speaking.

"Son, ye had a bad time of it while ye were missin'. Ye took an injury ta the head, and ye are sufferin' a wee bit o' memory loss. Ye need some time an' rest ta recover, and as ye heal, it's no' impossible for those memories ta return."

John merely blinked at the doctor; if he'd felt vulnerable a moment ago he felt nearly exposed now. The expression on the man's face, however, echoed by Weir, told him it wasn't a dream, or just a very bad joke, even. He swallowed tightly. "_Seriously_?"

"Aye, Colonel I would never lie ta ye about somethin' like this." Carson promised solemnly. John held his gaze as long as he was able, gauging the trust level. He swallowed again, and nodded warily.

"_Colonel_?" he asked again, this time more curious than irritated but he really wanted an answer to that. A warm smile, reaching to the physician's eyes, did more to relax John than anything.

"Aye," Carson replied again, nodding. "For awhile ye mentioned that promotion every chance ye got."

John groaned a little; he could imagine himself happily driving them all crazy over a promotion like that, and to his surprise, Weir laughed a little.

"Believe me, John, we were glad about it too, if a little browbeaten," Elizabeth's smile was also genuine.

"_This is…too weird_," John grumbled, squinting up at…Beckett. She'd said his name was Beckett. "_Doc…my head is gonna fall apart…really_."

Carson's smile faded away and he leaned nearer. Amnesia or not, it simply wasn't in Sheppard's nature to be a cooperative patient. If he was complaining of something, Carson could be certain it warranted a closer look.

John winced sharply as the doctor shone one of those stupid penlights into his eyes, gauging their reaction. He turned his head aside with a tightly muttered curse and Beckett had to admit that was a bit more like the John Sheppard they were familiar with.

"Sorry, laddie," Carson's tone was only partially apologetic; after all it was his job. "I just want ta pay close attention ta that concussion ye have." He glanced over at Dr. Weir. "I think that's about enough chattin' for now." Back down to John. "Try ta rest. If ye feel up ta it in a bit, we'll try some soup."

"_Uh huh_," John replied vaguely. It was more than clear that the colonel was reaching the end of his endurance for this particular visit. Exhaustion practically emanated from every pore in his body and his eyes closed almost of their own volition it seemed. A moment later, however, the hazel eyes blinked back open. "_Where's the other one?_" he mumbled, and Carson's forehead tightened into a puzzled frown. "_The one with the arm_…" John motioned with his good hand to indicate a sling.

"Oh, ye mean Rodney," Beckett realized. "He's gone back ta his lab ta check somethin' on the Ancient database…" It was out before he could stop himself and Beckett cringed, aware without even looking that Elizabeth was likely staring at him.

"_Oh…old system, huh?_" John bailed Carson out without even realizing it, and the Scotsman let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"Aye," Carson agreed quickly. "A vera…vera old system." The doctor turned into relieved-looking twins, and John squeezed his eyes tightly closed before blinking determinedly. He cautiously raised his good hand and rubbed his eyes attempting to clear his vision. "Colonel?" He was aware of Carson, hovering slightly.

"_Just…a little dizzy, Doc_." John swallowed weakly as the room spun lazily, prompting an unwelcome rush of nausea.

"Just a little? Ye are lookin' a bit green, Colonel." Carson glanced over at Elizabeth, nodding a bit to indicate she should wait for him. "I'll be with ye directly, lass." he directed, and taking the cue Elizabeth slipped from the critical care area, leaving Carson to see to his patient.

It was none too soon, as far as John was concerned. The moment Weir exited, he found himself unable to resist the urge to be sick; to say it was an unpleasant experience was an understatement as the retching swept fresh pain through his battered chest. He felt Carson quickly but gently lifting his head, the cool steel of a kidney dish beneath his chin. There was very little to expel but the urge was strong enough to keep him heaving for several moments. "_Easy…easy, Colonel_." The gentle Scottish brogue buzzed in his ears.

Gradually the retching ceased, but it left Sheppard fairly quivering as he fought to master the punishing hurt in his ribs. Somewhere above him the brogue continued but he didn't distinguish the words; between the revival of the bass drum line banging away in his head and the weak groaning he couldn't contain, Beckett's voice sounded like vague humming in the background of his mind.

For his own part, Carson was well aware that his patient didn't understand a thing he said; but that didn't stop him from talking, trying to coax John into relaxing enough to allow easier respiration. Just as gently as before, he eased John's head back to the pillows and moved the kidney dish aside. He called for one of the nurses on duty, who was there almost immediately. Carson requested a syringe with an anti-emetic and without even saying anything the nurse removed the kidney dish on the way out.

Moments later the physician was adding the requested medication to Sheppard's IV, watchful of the colonel's respiration. Not for the first time, Beckett mentally cussed out those responsible for Sheppard's injuries; it was a fair to inhuman to treat another person that way. It was one of the few things that truly boiled the Scotsman's blood.

John didn't know how much time had passed as he swallowed thickly and dared to open his eyes again. The nausea was beginning to ease and his stomach to settle, which was a great relief by itself. It was hard enough to deal with sore ribs and an aching head without feeling like he wanted to vomit up his insides.

"_Ow,_" he finally managed to proclaim.

"All that fuss and all ye have ta say for it is, 'ow,' laddie?" Carson's expression was taut; concerned but even without his memory John recognized the gentle amusement in the medical doctor's words. "How's the stomach now; better?" That carried a bit more seriousness in it.

"_Better_," John agreed gratefully. "_Rest…of me…is crap…but the gut's better_."

"Good," Beckett proclaimed, pleased the nausea was abating. "Ye try ta rest now, Colonel, and I'll be back shortly with somethin' ta help the pain." He intended to speak with Dr. Weir first, and by the time that was finished, it would be about time again to administer another dose of pain medication.

Feeling wrung out and persistently dizzy, Sheppard simply closed his eyes. He felt the physician pat his arm reassuringly and heard him step aside but now that his eyes were closed, he was far too exhausted to be curious about where Beckett was going.

The soft steady beeping of the cardiac monitor he was attached to echoed the drumbeat in his head. For a brief moment Sheppard considered simply yanking the little sensors off his chest but rejected it on the grounds that one, he felt like it would be too much work, and two, he refused to be responsible for the heart failures he might cause among the medical staff.

Apart from that, a simple silence fell in the wake of the doctor's departure. John's thoughts drifted vaguely as he lay there, breathing very carefully against the stabbing hurt in his chest. _Missing for three weeks_…? A slight frown creased his brow that had nothing to do with the physical pain he felt. He realized that Dr…Weir that was it…had never answered his questions about where he'd been, or where he was now. That was the first topic of conversation the next time he saw her, right up there with how he'd come to be missing almost three years of his life. _Three years…McMurdo…_ It was like something out of the Twilight Zone. _You've entered another dimension, a dimension of sight and sound_… "_Yeah_," John muttered to himself, "_Definite Far Side material_."

Despite his questions, and despite the accompanying aches and pains, John found himself almost drowsing. His eyes were beginning to feel permanently glued shut and oddly enough at the moment he didn't mind the idea. Somewhere in the back of his mind was the wishful hope that when he woke up it would turn out to have been a really, really bad dream.

* * *

Carson found Elizabeth pacing as he exited the small critical care suite, and there was a tight set to her bearing. She looked up instantly as he approached and couldn't help but glance past him toward the now curtained off area where John Sheppard lay.

"He's all right, Elizabeth," Carson was quick to reassure. "Just a touch o' sickness from the concussion. Nothin' terribly surprisin'. I gave him somethin' ta ease the nausea and when he's better settled I'll give his ribs another look ta make sure he hasn't damaged 'em further from bein' sick."

If his reassurance relaxed her at all, Weir didn't show it; she folded her arms and hunched her shoulders slightly. "I shouldn't have pressed him so hard," she said aloud, a slight frown marring her features. "He wasn't ready for it."

"This was no' ye'r fault, lassie. Besides the fact that ye hardly told him anythin'," Carson placed a hand on her shoulder now. "The harder work is still ta come." He motioned with his other hand to indicate Atlantis all around them and the fact that they were in another galaxy altogether. "Colonel Sheppard had ta face up ta the missin' time eventually."

Elizabeth sighed softly. "After what Rodney told me about what happened this morning…I'd prefer John heard things from _us_ than from Colonel Caldwell." A slight smirk touched her lips. "To hear Rodney tell it, Carson, it sounded like you were getting ready to resort to violence."

Carson actually chuckled at that, a sure sign that he was tired. "Aye, I might a' been a wee bit…irritated," he admitted with a sigh. "I'm wantin' the answers as much as anyone concernin' what happened ta the colonel. But I'll no' put him through an interrogation ta get 'em." He drew in a troubled breath, his expression darkening. "He's had too much o' that already." Despite the fact that a debriefing at the hands of Colonel Caldwell would be nothing like what John had already suffered, Carson was unwilling to subject him to the stresses inherent in another questioning.

Elizabeth lifted her head a little, a thoughtful expression crossing her features. "I appreciate that," she said at length, again glancing toward the curtained area. "I imagine Kate will have something to say about it as well." Kate Heightmeyer took her profession very seriously, and would likely be as protective of John Sheppard as Carson if it meant keeping his mental faculties intact.

"Aye, I have no doubt o' that at all," Beckett agreed. "Have ye had a chance ta inform her about Colonel Sheppard's condition?"

"Not yet," Weir admitted. "Between getting things back to normal…"

"As normal as it ever gets around here, ye mean," Carson snorted, and Elizabeth's eyebrow quirked upward curiously.

"Yes, well with John down and Colonel Caldwell eager to 'help,' I'm working to establish a special rotation I'd like Major Lorne to implement. While I don't mind the extra help from the _Daedalus'_ crew if it's needed, I would rather they follow the protocols already put in place by Colonel Sheppard," Elizabeth explained, to which Carson nodded agreement. "Along with the _Daedalus_ offloading supplies and reviewing the mission reports from the past month trying to figure out how this all went so…bad…" She sighed softly.

"Ye've had a full day, I see," Carson observed. "Would ye like me ta speak ta Kate for ye?"

Elizabeth actually looked relieved, but she hesitated. "I should really…"

"It will no' take more than a moment, Elizabeth. Ye need a break," Carson admonished gently, despite the fact that he was about dead on his own feet. "Have ye even had any supper?" His suspicions were proven correct when her eyes dropped briefly to escape his watchful gaze. However, her reply took Carson by surprise.

"When _you_ take a break, so will I," Elizabeth had _just_ the faintest hint of a smile on her features, as if to say _two can play that game_. It grew a little as the physician's expression blanked, obviously not having expected to have his advice turned back on him. "Deal?" She finally pressed home, both expression and voice softening. "I don't need my Head of Medicine collapsing on us next."

Not surprisingly, Beckett hesitated now. He jammed his hands into his pockets, and the tension in his bearing was clearly visible. "It would no' be my first choice either," he agreed that far.

"It's all right, Carson," Elizabeth reassured. "I'm not trying to make you leave. I'll get us both something to eat and come back. When does Dr. Suhaila come on?"

"In about an hour," Carson admitted with a glance at his watch.

"Call her in now," Weir prompted. "Take care of John, and I'll be back in fifteen minutes."

Realizing he was being beaten at his own game, Carson sighed softly. As long as the colonel hadn't done any more damage to his battered ribs from the round of vomiting, John was fairly stable. The Scot had to admit he could do with a little rest.

"All right, then," he agreed albeit a little reluctantly. "I'll call Siti in." Beckett was surprised at the warmth in Weir's smile.

"See you in fifteen." She left the Infirmary, and Beckett kept his word, summoning Dr. Suhaila and then returning to the critical care unit. Crossing over to his patient, Beckett noted that despite slightly staggered breathing and a tight set to pale features, Colonel Sheppard had dozed in his absence, but it was clearly not a comfortable rest.

As if sensing the physician nearby, hazel eyes opened very drowsily. "_H…hey, Doc_." Sheppard mumbled wearily and Carson could see the pilot was struggling to focus his vision.

"Dunna fight it, laddie," he soothed, not wishing John to incur another painful bout of nausea. "It'll pass. Close ye'r eyes, now and be still." Carson actually placed his palm gently over Sheppard's eyes, encouraging him to close them. When he lifted his hand away, he was pleased to see them closed. "Good. I have somethin' ta take the edge off the pain, and help ye ta sleep."

Even though his eyes were closed, John turned his head slightly in Carson's direction as the doctor proceeded to add the painkiller to the IV. "_Dr. Beckett…_"

Carson paused and blinked; when was the last time he'd ever heard John Sheppard be so formal with him?

"Aye, Colonel?" he answered simply, although he couldn't quite contain the note of surprise in his voice.

"_Where…where am I, anyway?_" The question was simple and yet…the answer could not be and Carson found himself suddenly with a very dry mouth. "_Doc…you still there?_" John hadn't reopened his eyes; that alone told Carson that the dizziness continued to plague him.

"Aye, son, I am," Beckett replied, fighting to keep his soft brogue calm. A smile drifted across his face as an idea came to mind. "Ye are at sea presently." That wasn't exactly a _lie_ per se; Atlantis did sit on a vast ocean.

On another planet.

In another, entirely different galaxy.

Carson cleared his throat nervously. If he didn't think about it all, then perhaps he wouldn't have to explain it all. A faint frown appeared on John's features.

"_Oh…some joint thing…with the Navy…then? Why…didn't she just…say that the first time?_" he mumbled, half to Carson, half to himself. It was Carson's turn to frown, now, uncertain if he had just made things worse or not. Finally he picked up the nearby cup and poured a little more water into it, and touched the straw to his patient's mouth. While John was still awake, and not suffering from nausea, Carson wanted to get more water into him. John was still exhibiting symptoms of moderate dehydration, and his body was still sucking up the fluids like a dry sponge.

Despite the earlier injunction, Sheppard hazily opened his eyes when the straw touched his lower lip, and obediently he sipped at the cool liquid. It felt so good against his dry and slightly sore throat. "_Thanks, Doc_." he slurred a little, indicating both exhaustion and the morphine making its presence known.

"Go ta sleep now, John," Carson encouraged. "I'll stay right here 'til ye drop off and then I'll be just outside."

"_'Kay_." Sheppard's voice lost another couple decibels and the half-opened hazel eyes drifted closed again. Carson waited several minutes until he was certain the morphine would be strong enough in John's system to buffer the colonel against what he was about to do.

Slowly and carefully he moved his hands along John's ribcage, feeling for further damage to the breaks he knew where there. He would also perform another chest series just to be certain, but there was still something to be said for a tactile examination. The faint groan that twice-interrupted Carson's progress bore testimony to the pain that still lingered beneath the morphine's influence.

Beckett breathed out a sigh of relief, as it appeared that the broken ribs had not shifted out of place, a minor miracle with the retching Sheppard had done. Retrieving his stethoscope, he gave the bruised and beaten chest a careful listening. While slightly strained, there was no further indication of respiratory distress and the colonel's lungs remained clear. Again, he gave thanks for small miracles.

"How's he doing?"

Carson nearly jumped, startled by Elizabeth's soft voice. Concentrating on the patient in question, he had not heard her nearly silent approach back to the colonel's bedside. Taking the time to pull the light blanket back up a little over the thin chest mottled with bruises, and to check the IV's dripping into John's veins, he turned back to Elizabeth and motioned her to precede him from the small area.

"I thought ye said ye dinna want ta lose ye'r chief surgeon," he accused lightly, hand over heart and Elizabeth had the grace to look a little sheepish.

"Sorry," she apologized honestly—and briefly. "John?"

"Vera sore…he will be for quite awhile; ribs take time ta knit back up together. Still a bit on the dry side, his system is absorbin' every wee drop we give him, but the dehydration is easin'. Sleep right now is still the best thing for him. He's totally exhausted, body and mind. But his pressure and pulse are much better, and exceptin' the pain, he's breathin' just fine." That, Carson had to admit, had been—and continued to be—a major concern; the one thing Colonel Sheppard _didn't_ need was a chest infection to muck up the works.

"So…" Elizabeth paused and looked at Carson, noting just how tired the physician seemed. "He's stable?"

Beckett knew exactly where this conversation was headed, but was saved from answering by the arrival of Siti Suhaila.

"Ah, hello Dr. Elizabeth," Suhaila greeted Weir in her unique manner.

"Dr. Suhaila," Elizabeth nodded her head graciously and then inclined it toward Carson. "Dr. Beckett and I were about to go have something to eat. Would you mind…?"

"Not minding a bit," Siti responded instantly, giving Carson a slight poke in the arm for good measure.

He knew when he was outmatched.

"Aye, Siti if ye could keep a close eye on Colonel Sheppard, I'd appreciate it." Before Suhaila even had a chance to reply, Elizabeth had hold of his coat sleeve and was pulling him aside to where two trays sat waiting. Carson had to admit, it felt good to sit down for a moment away from his equipment and just breathe a bit apart from work and worry. Both of which he had in abundance with one Lieutenant Colonel.

"Glad to see you're being sensible," Elizabeth smiled slightly, letting the Scotsman see she was only teasing a bit as she sat down opposite him and carefully picked up the sandwich on her plate. "Sorry…these were all they had left this late; I hope you don't mind chicken salad."

"Right now, lassie, I could eat almost anythin' ye set in front o' me," Carson replied, his stomach growling a little as he took the first bite, reminding him it had been awhile since he'd last put anything into it other than tea or coffee. It didn't take him long to finish off the first half of the neatly sliced sandwich, along with the pickle and nearly half a glass of milk. "Thank ye, Elizabeth."

"You're welcome," Weir replied warmly, glad that her good deed was more than appreciated. She nibbled at her meal a little more slowly, her eyes straying every so often toward the area where John slept. Beckett set aside the second half of his sandwich to follow her gaze back to the small critical care unit. He had an idea where her thoughts were running, and he cleared his throat softly before speaking.

"He'll be all right," Carson vowed quietly. "If _I_ have anythin' ta say about it, he'll be just fine."

"I know," Elizabeth replied, pulling her gaze away from the curtain keeping John from her line of sight. "It was just…harder than I expected to have him not know us." Her voice had dropped a notch.

"Aye," Carson agreed, but as a physician he had long ago been schooled to maintain a calm bearing around patients; they didn't need the added stress of his emotions on their recoveries. John was no exception in that; as distressed as he was that the colonel didn't know any of them, or all they had faced together, Carson had to keep his bedside manner gentle and relaxed. "We're goin' ta have ta be patient, for his sake as much as our own."

Perhaps that was an oversimplification; patience was going to be hard to come by, especially for the colonel himself and that would be difficult enough. Carson chewed thoughtfully as he considered the road ahead of them. "I have ta admit; despite the fact he's right here with us, in a way it feels as if he's still missin'."

"We have to get him back," Elizabeth stated, matter-of-factly, despite the worried look she wore. "We just have to. And that means we have to be ready to help him. Please, get some sleep?"

"Will _ye_ sleep too?" Beckett shot back instantly; if she was going to play dirty, then so would he. Weir smiled a little, and nodded. "All right, then, I'll get in a nap. Siti should be able ta handle anythin' that comes up." That settled, the two of them worked their way through the rest of their meal, mostly in silence, each lost in their respective trains of thought.

"Good night, Carson," Elizabeth finally took her leave, gathering up the trays as she rose. "I'll talk to you in the morning." Beckett nodded silently, a yawn overtaking him before he even realized it. "Sleep well." He was too tired to really respond to that, but as the administrator of Atlantis left his Infirmary, Carson regained his feet to confer with Dr. Suhaila. _Come back to us soon, Colonel_, He thought to himself as he crossed the main treatment area. _We certainly miss ye around here, lad_.

* * *

The pounding of feet on metal kept Ronon company as he ran along a high catwalk in Atlantis' southern section, a familiar route as he normally ran it with Sheppard. The jog was by no means daily; too often there were interruptions or other situations requiring one or both of their attentions. But as often as they could, they squeezed in the running to keep their fighting trim, to connect on matters regarding past or upcoming missions, and on occasion to blow off a bit of steam when things were "screwed up beyond all belief," as Sheppard phrased it.

Tonight, though, the run felt forced…and lonely. It felt too much like the seven long years prior to meeting John Sheppard and Ronon had to be honest with himself; he missed the colonel's presence as he ran. It was an odd enough admission to think about; certainly he would never make it aloud, particularly if it could be overheard.

Coming to the end of their normal route, Ronon slowed down and proceeded to make use of some stretching techniques Sheppard had shown him. It wasn't anything he'd ever done before but after a few sessions of running with the colonel, Ronon had come to see their usefulness, particularly after discovering it helped back muscles still occasionally stiff after harboring the Wraith tracking device so long.

The Satedan glanced back over his shoulder, a nervous habit that remained from his days of being pursued by the Wraith, the hunted often only steps ahead of the hunters. Despite beginning to feel that he truly belonged on Sheppard's team, if not quite in Atlantis' general population, there was the lingering sense of being watched, of Wraith shadows trailing his steps, of being unable to be anything more than a Runner.

"I imagine it was pretty rough, going from place to place, never sure of your next meal, when you could sleep…always having to look back." Ronon didn't even flinch, which told him that the former Runner had been completely aware of his presence even as he'd looked back over his shoulder, and Colonel Caldwell had to admit, he was impressed.

"Old habits," Dex grunted, exactly _un_impressed with Caldwell's observation, and he looked the man up and down as if sizing him up, and Caldwell merely lifted his eyebrows. The Satedan started to step past the _Daedalus_' commander, but Caldwell boldly stepped into his path, earning him that same unimpressed stare in return. "What?"

"I'd like to talk to you, discuss the…circumstances leading to Colonel Sheppard's capture and subsequent torture," Caldwell replied flatly, and Ronon inhaled sharply; it was the first time anyone had spoken the word _torture_ aloud regarding Sheppard although of course that is exactly what had happened. Ronon gave Caldwell another frank once-over.

"So long as you keep up," Ronon challenged. "You can talk to me as long as you want." The Satedan turned and started running back over the route he'd just finished, leaving Caldwell little choice but to either come along or wait for another time to talk.

After a few long moments, Dex could hear Caldwell's footsteps behind him and a nearly feral grin appeared briefly on his face until the colonel was close, before it faded away. Another few seconds passed as the tall Satedan set the pace before Caldwell spoke again.

"I read the initial reports Dr. Weir and Colonel Sheppard made concerning you," Caldwell prefaced, as if to say _I know all about you so let's get down to business_. Ronon merely grunted but said nothing, preferring to let the other man reveal his intentions first. "You've been with Colonel Sheppard's team for about a year now."

Ronon glanced at Caldwell briefly, was inwardly amused at the effort Caldwell expended to keep pace; military man or not there was only so much one could do when age began to assert itself. "Yeah," he finally replied, trying to gauge what the colonel wanted from him.

"Long time for someone like you to stay in one place," Caldwell commented thoughtfully as their footfalls echoed from the metal catwalk beneath them. "Must be difficult, trying to find where you fit in…learning to trust again."

Ronon shrugged a little as they ran. "Not too hard; Sheppard's a good man." His reply was terse but honest; Dr. Weir had encouraged his cooperation with the colonel, however he was not about to admit how close to the mark Caldwell had come regarding his struggle to make a place for himself in Atlantis.

"You trust him, then?" Caldwell inquired, taking the time to look to his left in an attempt to gauge the Satedan's demeanor.

"Completely," Dex answered without hesitation, but added warily, "More than I trust _you_."

"I appreciate your candor, Ronon." Caldwell actually chuckled; he _liked_ the straightforward Satedan. No head games with this one, just raw bluntness. "I'm just trying to get a feel for how things are run here in Atlantis. Certainly Colonel Sheppard's inclination to invite…offworld personnel directly into the inner workings of Atlantis' security teams warrants some attention."

"If you say so," Ronon ground out, shooting the colonel a glare that would melt steel all on its own. Not that Caldwell was looking.

"No insult intended," Caldwell assured between breaths. "It's my understanding that you've done well for Colonel Sheppard, and Atlantis. I just find it interesting that the head of this expedition found nothing unusual about her military commander involving unknown elements in key defense operations of this base."

"Weir?" The frown deepened. What was Caldwell after? "What about _Daedalus_? That…naked alien or whatever some kind of security risk?"

"The Asgard provided some of the _Daedalus'_ technology. Hermiod came as part of the deal for their aid." Caldwell explained. "Beside the fact that this isn't about _Daedalus_, but about Atlantis. Would you say you trust Dr. Weir, Ronon?" Caldwell asked, maintaining a curious sort of air in his question.

"Yes," Ronon answered between sharp footfalls.

"As much as Colonel Sheppard?" Caldwell took advantage of the brief pause that fell between them. "You don't, do you?"

"I trust her enough," Ronon answered, the edge in his voice not inviting further pressure.

"Did you trust her assessment of your mission to Istura?" Caldwell dropped it in as if he were simply tossing pennies into a fountain. "Isn't it true that you found a photograph, known to be circulated by the Genii, for the capture of Colonel Sheppard _during_ your initial visit to that world?"

"Yes, I did," Dex replied truthfully, without elaboration. He would cooperate up to a point. The man had a way of getting under the former Runner's skin and annoyance of that sort wasn't easily contained.

"What was Dr. Weir's reaction to that discovery?" Caldwell was beginning to be a bit out of breath, and Ronon took a bit of pleasure from it.

"She was against our returning," the Satedan answered, again simply and bluntly, and was further pleased to see how his answer seemed to annoy the _Daedalus'_ commander; obviously it wasn't the one Caldwell was looking for.

"And yet she still authorized the mission," Caldwell noted, and this time it was Ronon who was uncomfortable.

"Colonel Sheppard and rest of us convinced her we should go back."

"I see," Caldwell's smug tone irked Ronon to no end.

"What do you want?" Ronon finally demanded, his patience coming to an end.

"The same thing you do," Caldwell answered as if it should be the most obvious thing in the Pegasus Galaxy. "To find out what led to Colonel Sheppard's capture and who was behind it."

To Ronon it sounded more like a thinly veiled threat.

"Good luck," the Satedan's voice was a low, unhappy rumble and those Lanteans growing familiar with the former Runner understood that to be a cue to find other things to do. Caldwell, however, showed no sign of doing that and Ronon exhaled sharply. "Are we done?" he demanded flatly.

"We're done when I—

"Good," Ronon interrupted, and before the commander of the _Daedalus_ could finish or mount a protest, the Satedan pulled away, quite literally leaving the older man in the dust that his pounding feet stirred up from the aged catwalks.

Caldwell, in the meantime, came to a halt, panting heavily. Leaning over, hands on knees, he took the time to catch his breath while watching Dex continue until out of sight.

"—Say we're done," he muttered to himself as he straightened up. "This isn't over yet. I'll see to that, make no mistake."

* * *

"You wanted to see me, Dr. Weir?"

"Major, thank you for coming," Elizabeth looked up and smiled as Major Lorne entered her office. After leaving Carson, she had come back here to straighten up; after all, she _had_ promised the physician to get some rest, but there were still a few hours left before it could be considered 'late.' "Please, sit down."

"Yes, ma'am," Lorne answered as he settled down into the chair directly in front of Weir's desk. "What can I do for you?"

"I would like to talk to you about a temporary duty roster for the next few weeks," Elizabeth answered, pushing aside several items and closing her laptop to speak with Lorne directly. "The _Daedalus_' crew is here for an indeterminate amount of time and Colonel Caldwell has offered his crew to supplement our current complement." She paused, watching Lorne's face as the major followed her conversation. "Some of the colonel's crew will be furloughed, obviously for shore leave; we may need to assign temporary quarters for some, and arrange transport to the mainland for others…"

"Wait…wait just a moment, Dr. Weir," Lorne interrupted, lifting a hand briefly to forestall further conversation. "Should you be talking to me about this? After all, with Colonel Sheppard in the Infirmary, Colonel Caldwell _does_ outrank me." Not that he was all that eager to turn the reins over to someone outside the command structure already in place, but military courtesy demanded that they at least consider it.

"Marcus, the fact that Colonel Sheppard's in the Infirmary, is precisely why I'm talking to you about it," Elizabeth answered without hesitation, and was gratified when the major smiled in understanding.

"Yes, ma'am," he replied firmly, and Elizabeth nodded.

"Very well then, let's get down to it. I have your current rotation here, which was put into effect when Colonel Sheppard went missing…"

"Not all of it is correct now. Some of the roster was changed to accommodate the search teams," Lorne stood and pulled his chair closer to the desk, in order to study the information along with Weir, but as he sat down, the major hesitated. "How is the Colonel doing, ma'am?" he asked quietly, respectfully. "Not too many of us know what's going on, and Dr. Beckett hasn't exactly been saying much. Not that…I've let the guys bother him or anything."

Elizabeth looked up from the work before them, saw the sincere expression on the soldier's face, and once again she realized why John had chosen him to be his second-in-command. Lorne was up-front and open with his opinions without being disrespectful or rude, was loyal to a fault, and smart as a whip. More than once already in his short tenure in Atlantis, Lorne had been the one to haul John or one of the others out of harm's way, and she could see exactly why the colonel liked him personally as well as professionally.

She briefly weighed the implications of speaking to Lorne frankly about what was happening with his commanding officer. It was one thing to inform Sheppard's personal team; it would be quite another to have the details of his condition broadcast to the general populace of Atlantis as part of the usual scuttlebutt.

"Thank you for keeping them in line," Weir prefaced carefully. "I'm sure Carson appreciates it as well. That said; I also understand the concern you're expressing for Colonel Sheppard." Elizabeth leaned forward, elbows on her desk, and exhaled softly before meeting Lorne's eyes. "John is stable, but his condition is serious. As you may already know, his injuries will likely keep him off duty for some time."

Lorne nodded and his eyes were wide and watchful. "We heard _some_ stuff…Lieutenant Powell's seeing one of the nurses…" He realized what that sounded like and he swallowed tightly. "Sorry, ma'am. I'll clamp down on the grapevine."

"_I_ would appreciate that, Marcus," Elizabeth interjected seriously. "John's facing a difficult enough recovery without having the rumor mill making it harder for him."

"Yes, ma'am," the major agreed emphatically, before hesitating slightly. "Powell said they beat the colonel up pretty bad." Lorne's tone echoed his expression of concerned sympathy, and Weir sighed again.

"Powell would be right on that one," she replied directly. "It seems apparent that in the course of interrogation, Colonel Sheppard was…drugged and beaten." Elizabeth winced; it hurt just to _say_ it but she felt that as John's second in command, Marcus needed to know exactly what was on the table. Still, she waited a handful of seconds before continuing. "As a consequence of his captivity, John's memory has been affected."

"Affected…how?" Marcus straightened up in his seat, his expression taut. This certainly had not been part of the normal through-the-ranks gossip that floated around over morning coffee. Elizabeth pushed away from her desk as well, acknowledging the tension Marcus displayed.

"He presently doesn't recognize any of us, or Atlantis," Elizabeth explained as gently as she could. "Coupled with his current physical condition, it's why Carson's been reluctant to allow him any visitors beyond a few people." Marcus swore softly, and impulsively the major stood up and prowled back and forth.

"So we still don't really know _exactly_ what happened out there," Lorne realized, frowning heavily. All the immediate questions that such a situation could entail flooded his mind; Weir could almost _see_ the proverbial gears turning as he paced.

"No, not yet. And until those memories resurface, I'm not going to jump to any conclusions about what took place," Elizabeth said firmly. "We've only just gotten him back, Major. We have to give him time to recover." Perhaps it was stating the obvious, but she had the feeling that Marcus might not be the only person for whom she would have to lay it out. "I realize you haven't been here that long, but I'm sure you can see why I've come trust John Sheppard implicitly." She paused until Marcus faced her again. "I still do, for that matter."

"I understand, Dr. Weir," Lorne replied respectfully. "As much as I respect Colonel Sheppard, he'd kick my butt if I didn't consider the possibility that he…" Lorne hesitated, finding it as difficult to say aloud, as it was to think it.

"That he…what?" Elizabeth knew exactly where Marcus was going, but she wouldn't let him off the hook so simply; she would much rather discuss the unpleasant idea with the major than, say, Colonel Caldwell.

"That he might've broken, ma'am," Lorne's voice was quiet, uncertain. "You said they drugged him, right?"

"You're trained in resisting interrogation, right?" Elizabeth shot back, struggling to keep her voice—and her emotions—in check. The rational, logical part of her mind told her that Marcus was only doing his job. He was right—John would pitch a fit later if his second in command didn't consider the security risk.

"Yes, ma'am. But everybody has a breaking point, Doctor. I can appreciate Colonel Sheppard's training, combat experience, and even that ridiculous ability of his to tolerate pain. But do we know what those drugs have done to him, really?" Lorne swallowed tightly and in an uncharacteristically nervous gesture suddenly jammed his hands into his pockets. "I mean…Ma'am, I _know_ I'm talkin' about the _Colonel_. I don't think he'd give us up, either. In fact, I'd stake my life on it but I don't know if we can stake everybody _else_'s life on it, if you get my meaning."

Weir exhaled sharply; hearing it spoken out loud only intensified her fears both for John and for Atlantis. She leaned forward again, this time to briefly press the heels of her hands against her forehead.

"Unfortunately, I do," she had to admit it; there was still too much that was unknown. "But I'm not ready to give up on John yet. Neither should you."

"I—I'm not," Lorne was quick to affirm, and the hands were clenched into fists inside the pockets. "Honestly, I don't want to, either. I just want us to be prepared for…anything that might happen. If these people who took Colonel Sheppard wanted to pick up our weak points…"

"I know, Marcus," Elizabeth raised her head now. "There are enough to pick up. And I'm more than aware that under enough duress, even the most trained mind can break. But we're not there, yet." She drew in a steadying breath. "Until we are, I don't want this information to leave this room, Marcus. I'll work with you on contingency plans, but I do not want this a matter of general discussion, do I make myself clear?"

It was as close to a military order as she might get, but she meant it completely. Lorne nodded shortly, ceasing his pacing and coming to a stance of near-attention. He meant to carry out her request. "Yes, ma'am."

"Good. Now, let's start on those contingency plans by setting out these duty rotations," Elizabeth strove to keep her voice calm, and even. "Then we can discuss…other matters." She waited until the major had settled back into the chair across from her before launching into the topic at hand, making the best of having the _Daedalus'_ crew underfoot for however long they planned to stay.

As they worked, she couldn't help but think about what Marcus had said. That there was a possibility—however unlikely they wished it to be—that John might have broken under interrogation and revealed things about Atlantis that they could ill afford. Despite everything inside her that said not to believe it, despite the instinct to simply trust John and wait for his recovery, the practical side of her told her they didn't have that kind of luxury. Every moment might be crucial to Atlantis' survival, and she knew it.

Elizabeth swallowed reflexively, reaching for the ever-present coffee cup. She was going to have to make some decisions, perhaps faster than she wanted to. She paused, drinking some of the coffee while Lorne outlined a potential plan for rotating some of the _Daedalus'_ crew, as well as some of the Lantean expedition, to the mainland for a little R&R. The rest would be deployed judiciously along with their counterparts in Atlantis to aid in the day-to-day operations of the city. As offworld missions were temporarily suspended in the wake of John's rescue, there was little worry about sending them out with offworld teams.

"If something comes up, we can clear it on a case-by-case basis," Lorne suggested, pausing in his narrative. When she didn't immediately respond, he cleared his throat lightly. "Dr. Weir?"

"Of course," Elizabeth answered immediately, turning her eyes back to the man sitting beside her. "We can decide who goes when and if it becomes necessary, or when we reinstate Gate travel, whichever comes first." She thought it best to demonstrate that her attention hadn't wandered completely away, before smiling slightly.

"He wouldn't do it, ma'am," Lorne finally said quietly, recognizing Weir's distraction as being his own. "Colonel Sheppard wouldn't sell us out." They'd have to be practical, of course, but he couldn't help but say what he wholeheartedly believed.

"I know, Marcus," Elizabeth answered, working hard to quell the slight tremor in her voice. "I know."

* * *

"Hello, Dr. McKay," A small voice greeted Rodney as he hurried back into the Infirmary, and it took him a moment to realize anything had been said to him before he halted in his tracks and looked around. "I am over here."

"Oh," Rodney said simply as his gaze finally fell upon the speaker, the little Athosian boy recovering from some sort of surgery, as he remembered it. He hesitated a moment, but then drifted a little closer to the bed in which the child lay. "How…how are you feeling…uhm," Rodney fumbled through his memory. "Who are you, exactly?" he demanded, slightly frustrated with his inability to recall the boy's name. Not that he had expected to be quizzed on it or anything!

"I am Wickley," The boy asserted, before thrusting a hand out and catching Rodney's sleeve, pulling the scientist closer to his bed. Wickley's expression was deadly serious and his voice conspiratorial as he asked softly, "_Did you come to see Colonel Sheppard?_" Rodney blinked for a moment, taken off guard once again. He wasn't expecting to be questioned—by a child, no less—about his business in the Infirmary.

"Well, as a matter of fact, I did," he finally answered, not seeing any harm in being honest with the boy. "We do a lot of work together and I…well, you see, Colonel Sheppard…" Rodney's rambling commentary was interrupted by a slight tug on the sleeve that the boy had yet to release, nearly upending the notebook he carried in his good arm. "What?"

"Can I see him too?" Wickley asked quietly, and that was about the _last_ thing McKay had been expecting of the child. Wide eyes looked up at him, and Rodney glanced around uncomfortably.

"I really don't think that's such a good idea…" he hedged a little. "Dr. Beckett wouldn't be particularly happy with me if I got you out of bed. You're supposed to be getting better."

"I am better," Wickley pronounced steadily, and Rodney couldn't help but shake his head slightly.

"Sheppard's teaching you all of his bad habits, I see," he remarked dryly, before sighing softly as the boy gave him a puzzled frown. "Look, uhm…"

"Wickley."

"Look, Wickley," Rodney tried to resist being exasperated; reminding himself once more that the boy was recovering from surgery, after all. "Colonel Sheppard needs his rest, just like you do."

"_Please?_"

One thing Rodney had never learned to deal with very well was the pleading looks of small dogs and wide-eyed children. Oh, he was perfectly capable of crushing their hopes with the dreaded 'no' word, but even if it was for their own good somehow he always ended up feeling like the selfish heel he pretended to be.

Somehow, this seemed harder than usual. McKay was well acquainted with how popular Sheppard was with the Athosian children, and knowing that the boy was worried about someone he looked up to made it harder to resist those big eyes.

"Well…maybe it wouldn't hurt, but you have to do what I tell you, understand?" Rodney waited until he had the child's solemn nod. "You have to be quiet because he's probably sleeping."

"_Okay dokey_," Already the boy was whispering. McKay had to admit he found it somewhat amusing as much for the Athosian child using slang picked up from Sheppard as for the idea _any_ child would be cooperative enough to do as he asked. His amusement was short-lived as Wickley started to sit up, and he hurriedly set the notebook aside, putting his good hand on the boy's shoulder.

"Wait…wait just a minute," Rodney scolded lightly. "Tearing out stitches isn't going to help very much, and most likely will get _me_ killed by a doctor with a _very_ big needle. Just lie still a minute and let me figure this out." Wickley nodded, his small face slightly pinching in pain. His side was still fairly sore and he willingly lay back against the big soft pillows in his bed.

"_I just want to see my friend Colonel Sheppard_," Wickley explained, still whispering, as if Rodney would have somehow forgotten it.

"Me too," Rodney assured, finding himself patting the boy's shoulder uncertainly, not sure if that was the right thing to do, if it was comforting enough. "But I only have one arm that works right at the moment, so it's a matter of logistics." Wickley didn't know what the word 'logistics' meant, but as his eyes swept over the sling supporting the scientist's other arm, he understood that Rodney was hurting too. He nodded silently, his eyes watchful. "Good. Let me see if I can find a wheelchair."

If Rodney thought pushing a wheelchair with just one hand was going to be difficult, he hadn't counted on how hard it would be to help a little boy with an incision _into_ the thing. Thankfully the wheelchair could be locked into place as they worked. Slowly and carefully they maneuvered until Wickley was sitting in it, holding a pillow to his stomach. Rodney waited a few moments before unlocking the wheels, giving them both a chance to recover from their exertions.

"I am ready," Wickley announced presently, and tipped his head back to look up at Rodney. Rodney thought he was a little pale, but the Athosian's eyes were wide and trusting.

"All right," McKay started to guide the wheelchair as best he could. "Just remember, nice and quiet, okay?" The dark head before him nodded slightly. It took another few minutes to maneuver the wheelchair into the small area where Sheppard lay, indeed sleeping as Rodney thought he might be.

"_What happened to him_?" Wickley whispered up to the scientist as the boy got his first close-up look of the colonel. Rodney could hear the tremor in the boy's voice, and he placed a hand on Wickley's shoulder, swallowing tightly.

"_We…don't actually know, really_," Rodney whispered back, leaning down so Wickley could hear him without disturbing John. "_Some…very bad people took him away from us_."

"_But Dr. Beckett said it was not the Wraith_," Wickley protested, almost forgetting to whisper in his agitation. "_The Wraith always takes away…_"

"_Shhh, remember what I said about quiet_?" Rodney reminded. "_We don't want to wake Colonel Sheppard up. He has a…very bad headache_." Well, it was the truth, just not…_all_ the truth. Bruises, of course, told their own truth. Wickley reached up with a small hand, wrapping it carefully around John's left fingers, protruding from the cast. The gesture had Rodney blinking back sudden moisture in his eyes, although he would deny it outright if seen.

"_He looks like it hurts a lot_," Wickley whispered at last, and Rodney tightened his grip on the boy's shoulder by a fraction.

"_It does,_" McKay didn't sugarcoat it, but neither was his tone harsh. "_But he's gonna be just fine, you'll see. Dr. Beckett's the best we have and he'll fix up the Colonel as good as new_." Both visitors froze briefly as the subject of their whispered conversation stirred slightly, fingers twitching within Wickley's grasp, the dark head turning slightly toward them with a soft sigh. Hazel eyes partly opened, a hazy blink, a drowsy smile as John's sleep-sodden gaze swept over them both before sinking back into a deeper sleep. Wickley grinned as if he'd been given a gift or a bag of the sweet-drops that his people made for special days. He turned his head, looking at Rodney. "_See? What'd I tell you?_"

"And just what d' ye think ye two are about?" Despite the low volume, there was no mistaking the authoritative tone in the accented voice that took the visitors both by surprise. McKay sucked in a startled breath, straightening up to see Beckett standing close by, arms folded disapprovingly across his chest, eyebrows up in that sort of expression that the scientist well remembered from childhood when his mother wanted an answer _right now_.

"Carson!" he exclaimed.

"_Shh_!" Wickley hurriedly reminded.

"I…uh…" Rodney stammered briefly as Carson continued to wait for a response. "He wanted to see Sheppard…" In the heat of the moment, Rodney was again fumbling for the Athosian's name, and he certainly wasn't impressing Carson. "Aw, c'mon Beckett, he gave me puppy eyes. You know…_that_ big around." He made an "O" with his hand. "How was I supposed to turn _that_ down?"

Inwardly, despite some exasperation, Carson was oddly amused; the two before him looked exactly like a pair of scamps with their hands firmly stuck in the proverbial cookie jar. He couldn't help but also wonder if the wee mites on M7G-677 had managed to get to Rodney—in spite of all protests to the contrary and the few recipes for disaster that Carson _had_ witnessed consisting of one part Rodney plus one or more parts children.

Outwardly, however, he simply shook his head. "Ye are a soft touch in ye old age, Rodney," he accused but said nothing more until he came up and nudged McKay aside, in order to push the wheelchair back out into the main Infirmary. Wickley reluctantly released John's fingers, and Carson wheeled him back out to his bed, Rodney walking behind. "I'm no' even goin' ta ask how ye managed ta get Wickley out o' bed with that shoulder," Carson finally chided when they were able to speak at a more normal volume.

"Ah, you forget…_genius_," McKay motioned to himself with his good hand, wearing a smug look but Beckett could see the lines of discomfort in the scientist's face; he had no doubt that McKay had managed to strain the still-healing joint.

"An' ye wee bugger," Carson turned his attention to Wickley. "There better no' be any popped stitches or ye'll be in big trouble."

"All it took was a little loja…ticks." Wickley stumbled over the unfamiliar term, and McKay grinned suddenly. _Take that, Sheppard! Two can teach the lingo and corrupt the minors_.

"Yes indeed, simple logistics. At no time during this excursion were any stitches harmed in any way," McKay reported to Beckett with a roll of his eyes.

"I'll be the judge o' that," Carson answered as they reached the scene of the escape—Wickley's bed—and proceeded to help the child back into it. "Just lie still an' let me look at ye." Fortunately—for both their sakes, Rodney realized—there indeed was no harm done to the Athosian boy's incision or stitches.

"Oh, good!" McKay breathed out. "You know what this means? It means I get to live another day."

"Ye are _so_ right about that!" Carson shot back. On the bed, Wickley couldn't help but giggle a little, until the soreness put a stop to that, but Carson smiled reassuringly at the boy. "Have us figured out already, d' ye?" He pulled the blanket up.

"You would not hurt Dr. McKay. Not really," Wickley answered firmly. "You already helped him." He pointed at the sling Rodney wore.

"Aye, laddie, ye got me there," Carson replied with a "resigned" sigh. "Ye are too smart for us. I want ye ta go ta sleep now, a'right? It's a bit late for ye ta be awake, and ye are still healin' up." He ruffled the dark hair and was pleased when Wickley closed his eyes; it was apparent the little adventure had been enough to tire him out. "Rest well, laddie."

As Rodney re-gathered his temporarily abandoned notebook, he paused long enough to pat the little Athosian boy's shoulder. "Good night, Wickley."

"Good night, Dr. McKay," Wickley mumbled drowsily in reply. Cradling the notebook in his good arm, Rodney rejoined Carson a few paces away.

"That was a nice thing ye did, Rodney," Carson said seriously. "He's been worryin' his wee head about Colonel Sheppard all day." McKay shrugged, a bit uncomfortably.

"He had a death grip on my arm," Rodney groused. "Don't give me too much credit." The physicist gingerly shifted his injured arm within the sling just a tiny bit. Moving past Carson toward the small critical care area where John still slept, Rodney missed the medical doctor's slight, knowing smile at his protest of having a heart.

"Ye look rather uncomfortable; what did ye do?" Carson asked now with a slight sigh. "I'm used ta stubborn from Colonel Sheppard, mind, but _ye_ dunna need ta give me fits too."

"I didn't do anything…much," Rodney replied somewhat uncertainly; he wasn't as good at bluffing as John and the look on Carson's face told him that the physician knew it. "I just thought I'd come down here and see what progress you've made on your end." He motioned toward the workstation Carson had occupied most of the past day and a half analyzing the unknown compound the colonel had been injected with.

"No' much," the physician admitted, tiredly. "It appears ta have, as part o' it's base makeup, a substance that interacts directly with the central nervous system, although inactive as it is, I canna tell precisely what it will or will no' do ta him." Beckett moved to the workstation, and looked over at Rodney. "But I do have some ideas."

"Like what?" McKay prompted, setting his notebook down on the workstation surface; and the Scotsman sat down to bring up the last set of data he had been working with.

"One possibility is that it could trigger random firin' in specific pain receptors, thereby sendin' counterfeit pain messages ta the brain." Rodney swallowed convulsively; he didn't need to be a medical doctor to understand what Carson was getting at.

"Pleasant little cocktail," McKay's tone was bitter. "So what you're saying is that when this toxin becomes active in the Colonel's system, it'll essentially pick up where his torturers left off." He exhaled sharply. "Nice."

"_Perhaps_," Carson interjected warningly. "As I said, it's just a theory. In this dormant stage, it's bloody difficult ta get a handle on what ta expect."

"So…what's it waiting for? Some sort of cosmic signal, 'okay it's time to kill Sheppard now,' or what?" Rodney asked nervously. He hated waiting of any kind, even for something he dreaded; he'd rather know the bad news up front. To say that Carson looked unhappy with his anxious impatience was an understatement.

"It _is_ possible the toxin will activate given some sort o' neurological or physiological trigger," Beckett admitted. "But without more information, it's near ta impossible ta predict what that trigger might be, or how ta stop it." The physician's expression now was anxious, and McKay had to admit he shared that feeling. He inhaled slowly.

"Any other bright ideas, Harry Potter, M.D.?" Rodney's question carried its usual bite, but Carson knew better, could see the tight worry in the astrophysicist's eyes. Carson sighed softly.

"Aye, unfortunately," the Scot answered, and met Rodney's anxious gaze. "Another concern is the possibility of withdrawal." Rodney actually _shuddered_, and Carson put out a steadying hand, watching the scientist with a physician's eye. "Are ye alright, Rodney?" Rodney swallowed hard, but nodded a moment later. His pale complexion didn't go unnoticed by Carson, and he steered the scientist to the nearest chair.

"I…it's just…I remember…" McKay motioned vaguely toward the small suite that now held Sheppard. "…What it felt like." He dropped his head briefly, before looking up at Beckett. "It was beyond horrible." It wasn't all that long ago the critical care suite had held _him_, suffering massive withdrawal symptoms from the overdose of Wraith enzyme, made further difficult by hypoglycemic complications. "I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy. Well, Kavanagh, maybe. But certainly not on Sheppard, no matter how big a pain in the…"

"_Rodney_," Carson stressed. "They're _theories_ only. Until we learn more, or until the Colonel presents symptoms, we can only make calculated guesses at what it'll do ta him."

"Right…right," Rodney nodded, getting as much a handle on things as he ever did. "I imagine those probably are the more pleasant alternatives as opposed to…having it actually kill him."

"Ye are right about that," Carson motioned to the notebook sitting on his desk now. "Now did ye come up with anythin' helpful from the database?"

"Well, yes…and at the same time, obnoxiously, no," Rodney huffed impatiently, more so with himself than with Carson. Reaching down he flipped open the data pad and tapped a few keys, bringing up the sub-section of the Ancient mainframe he'd shown Carson earlier.

"The table o' contents," Beckett murmured, holding to his initial assessment.

"Yes, yes, at the risk of listening to you brag about it for days on end, you were right. It _is_ a table of contents, but an incomplete one from the looks of this…" Rodney punched up another set of keys and a voluminous amount of information scrolled up on the screen. "An entirely different sub-section of the medical portion of the database. I finally figured out how to access the information, but it's going to take some time to sift through this, especially since we've got so little to go on."

"How much time?" Carson asked; a note of trepidation in his voice accompanied by a worried frown. "We may no' have that much ta spare."

"I am acutely aware of that, Carson but thank you for pointing it out," Rodney remarked but the sarcasm was lost to the overwhelming exhaustion in the scientist's voice. Rodney reached up to rub his eyes and a moment later looked up as he felt the physician's hand on his good shoulder.

"Ye need some sleep," Beckett was all business now, looking over the scientist's still-pale features and noting the fine trembling in the hand that moved across the notebook. It was not a question or a request, but a flat-out order, and McKay looked up with that sort of 'deer-in-headlights' expression that he carried off all too well.

"That can wait," he protested, waving Beckett off impatiently. "Time is of the essence, as we were so recently discussing, and mine can be better utilized right here, looking for answers that will help Colonel Sheppard."

"Ye'll be no help ta him if ye end up collapsed in the bed next ta him," Carson warned seriously. "John needs us ta be thinkin' clearly, not half-dead ourselves."

"In that case, it seems to me that you could do with following your own advice, Dr. Spock. You look about ready to fall face-down yourself," Rodney shot back, fidgeting.

"I _was_ on ma' way out ta do just that when I caught sight o' ye sneakin' about with Wickley," Carson replied dryly. "Rodney…"

"All I want is just…a few minutes in there and then I'll go to bed for a few hours. Good enough?" Rodney looked up at Carson, blue eyes bleary with exhaustion but clearly pleading. Beckett sighed.

"I dunna suppose that'll hurt anythin'. And I doubt Dr. Suhaila will have ta show ye the door when ye'r done," Carson conceded, shaking his head slightly. "I'll give ye an hour; I want ye in bed after that." The physician rubbed the back of his neck. "I'll be in my quarters if ye need anythin'; Siti'll be here. Good night, Rodney."

"Good night, Carson," McKay answered perfunctorily, gathering up his notebook and taking the gift he had been given without question, slipping into Sheppard's critical care room and pulling up a chair. In the dim lights of the evening shift, he had to admit that the colonel's various bruises and injuries didn't look quite so bad; he could almost imagine Sheppard healthy and whole, just waiting to wake up and go about his business. There still was, however, the steady, lulling rhythm of the heart monitor and if he paid attention to it long enough, he was well reminded of the colonel's situation. "Hi, there…again," Rodney murmured very softly as he settled down in the chair beside Sheppard's bed. "I'm sorry it took me so long to get back. It just took me a little longer than I expected to find what I wanted." The physicist settled in with the notebook and started working.

Shaking his head slightly, Carson simply headed out for that nap he'd promised Elizabeth. He'd be bloody glad when this was all sorted out. He just hoped they still had a military commander in John Sheppard when it was.


	3. Chapter 3

THREE

Dawn over Atlantis was, as often the case in this temperate climate, spectacular. Pinks and mauves and deeper shades of orange and purple heralded the sunrise on the far horizon over the vast ocean and as always it never failed to take Elizabeth's breath away even now, two years after viewing her first one.

Her quarters had finally begun to take on some elements of her personality after all this time, something that John Sheppard had actually commented on the one time he'd been inside her rooms. The Athosian pot he'd given her for her birthday had been a start. However, prompted by Sheppard's smart-aleck remark about wondering if she actually _lived_ in her quarters or if she just liked appearances, Elizabeth had begun to add small touches of her own.

One of those touches was a native Lantean flowering vine that they'd discovered on a trek to the mainland. Halling had actually constructed a small latticework trellis for her, and now the beautiful plant sprawled all along it, covering nearly the entire wall with the small, fragrant blooms. However, it had taken a few tries to get it right; this was the fourth such vine to grace her wall. The other three had largely been trial and error; how much water, how much light, how big a pot the base of the plant required. This one, however, seemed to be flourishing and the cheery blue petals opened up as the first rays of sunlight came through the window and played over the trellis.

"Good morning," Elizabeth murmured as she brought over a small pitcher of water and poured it into the pot. Today was watering day; every third day thereabouts the plant required a good drink. Plant number one had fairly drowned to death, as Dr. Miakis had put it, when Elizabeth had tried watering every day. She paused to stroke a fingertip over a few of the soft little flower petals and smiled.

Plant maintenance finished, Elizabeth continued on with her own morning routine, showering and dressing. Breakfast was on the agenda if she could squeeze in a trip to the mess hall. There was no time to linger over the sunrise or the plant. First on the list was to check in with Carson, see how John had fared overnight. It was a certainty in her mind that Carson would not have slept through the entire night shift, but likely would have rejoined Dr. Suhaila on duty somewhere during the course of the evening.

She was running a brush through her hair when that assumption was borne out in a radio call to her quarters in a very familiar accent, "_Beckett ta Weir. Am I interruptin' ye, lassie_?"

"Weir," Elizabeth answered as her head instinctively lifted at the sound of the physician's voice. "Carson…what is it? John?" She tensed; thoughts already running ahead of her to any number of complications that may have arisen overnight for the Colonel she had come to regard as a friend.

"_In a manner o' speakin'. Could ye come down ta the Infirmary for a few minutes_?"

"On my way. Weir out," Elizabeth responded immediately, abandoning the brush and scooping up her earpiece on the way out the door. Her pace was brisk but she tried not to look too apprehensive as she made her way to the nearest transporter that would deposit her on the Infirmary level. Carson fairly met her at the door as she entered his domain, and there was a concerned expression upon his face.

"Ah, there ye are. Good mornin', Elizabeth," Carson greeted her straight away, one hand coming out from the pocket of his lab coat to reach for her arm, guiding her a few paces away. It was the sort of gesture that Elizabeth was all too familiar with, the type of thing that said something serious had happened.

"Carson?" Her eyes searched the physician's face. "Is John all right?"

"Oh, aye, as all right as he can be," Beckett answered her, realizing all at once what his summons must have sounded like. "I asked for ye because I have a wee problem I need some help with."

"Help?" Elizabeth's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Of course, if I can. What's the problem?"

"Rodney," Carson said simply, with a soft, exasperated sigh.

"Rodney," Elizabeth repeated, blinking once.

"Aye," Carson turned slightly, glancing back over his shoulder before continuing. "The daft bugger has stayed here all night long after I specifically instructed him ta go ta sleep." Carson sighed. "I suppose 'tis my own bloody fault; I should have stayed the extra hour and made sure he went ta bed. I expected Siti would do that for me."

"And you expect me to do any better?" Elizabeth asked, and Carson looked up sharply, only a slight smile at the mischievous look on her face.

"Well, 'tis ma last option before sedatin' him," he explained, and Elizabeth's expression changed from amused to concerned.

"_Sedating_ Rodney? It's that bad?"

"Aye. I dunna think he's had a proper night's sleep the past three weeks, actually," Carson said quietly, and let that sink in. Three weeks since Teyla and Ronon had brought Rodney back from Istura, three weeks of anxiety as the search teams looked for John…three weeks in which Rodney could do very little except fritter his time on projects as he waited for his missing friend to be found. "And I dunna think he has slept at _all_, or vera little, since Colonel Sheppard's been back."

"I see," Elizabeth shook her head slightly. "And you think I'm the one to get through to him?"

Carson shrugged. "I figure it could no' hurt ta try," he suggested. Elizabeth agreed with a small nod of her head; it really couldn't hurt. Carson led the way back toward the small ICU suite, and she followed after him with purposeful steps. The past few weeks had been hard on them all in Sheppard's absence, but Elizabeth realized it had been tougher on Rodney than most.

"…Internal bleeding and seizures. _Greaaat_. Let's hope we don't run into _that_ one anytime soon," Rodney muttered to himself as he took a break from typing to reach up and rub the back of his neck absently.

"It's no wonder you have a crick in your neck, if you've been sitting like that all night," Elizabeth greeted lightly as she stepped closer to the scientist, nearly startling him into dropping the notebook.

"Elizabeth!" Rodney shifted slightly, looking up at her in surprise. "It's a little early in the morning to be sneaking up on people, don't you think?" Elizabeth's right eyebrow swept up into that look that made Rodney want to squirm. He didn't, of course, but he did turn his attention back to the notebook, bringing up the next subset of information.

"It's too early for you to be irritating the medical staff, don't _you_ think?" she shot back lightly, no sting in her tone but it wasn't exactly a secret that between Rodney's actual medical history and his histrionics, Carson's personnel were quite familiar with the astrophysicist.

"I'm not irritating any…" McKay trailed off as he saw Beckett standing close by, arms folded across his chest and wearing a patiently concerned expression. "Oh."

"Rodney, when was the last time you got some sleep?" Elizabeth asked gently now. She watched as the scientist before her tapped another few keys, muttered about whatever it was that scrolled up on the screen, and then look up as he finally registered her question.

"What?" he answered, blinking dully as if her inquiry had been in another language.

"Sleep. When was the last time you had some?" Weir repeated patiently, as if speaking to a recalcitrant child. Neither she nor Beckett missed McKay's tight swallow and reluctant glance over at Sheppard before he shrugged slightly as if it was an unimportant question.

"I've slept," he defended himself, trying to resist the impulse to scrub at his eyes or the back of his neck. "A good power-nap at just the right time does wonders." McKay bent his head back to his work, unwilling to discuss it further unless Beckett started threatening him with needles. _That_ was another matter entirely.

"McKay," Elizabeth's tone had sharpened into something more no-nonsense, and she waited the extra few seconds until Rodney actually looked up at her. "You need _sleep_. Now."

"Sheppard needs me more right here," Rodney's tone was actually almost desperate as he looked from Elizabeth to Carson and back again. "Who knows how much time he's got before that…substance fries his brain…or something worse." Elizabeth had to admit that Rodney's quiet plea tugged hard at her own concerns, and she looked over at John, still sleeping despite the taut but hushed conversation taking place just a few feet away. "I'll be fine," he insisted firmly.

That drew Elizabeth's eyes back to the obviously exhausted scientist in front of her. Dark circles rimmed Rodney's eyes, accentuating his already normally pale features and a fine tremor had settled into the hand that made its way across the notebook's touchscreen.

"You're _not_ fine, Rodney," she said and her clear concern was hard to ignore, although Elizabeth could see that was exactly what Rodney was trying to do. Taking a deep breath, the expedition leader did the only thing—unthinkable as it was—that came to mind: she reached down and pulled away the notebook.

The look that flashed across McKay's face was first astonished, then frustrated and finally grim.

"You don't seem to understand what's at stake here," he snapped, lunging for the data pad from the chair, despite the fact that with only one hand available, Elizabeth was easily able to dodge the attempt. "If we want to have any chance at getting him back, mentally intact, I _have to do this_."

"And if ye end up droppin' over from exhaustion, Rodney?" Carson interrupted gently. "Who's goin' ta save the Colonel then?" Perhaps it was appealing a bit to Rodney's ego, but at this point appealing to anything that would get the scientist to give into his need for rest couldn't hurt.

Rodney's throat constricted and he swallowed hard. Without responding to Carson he turned away from them both, facing John, watching his injured friend's uneasy breathing. "You don't…you don't understand," he finally mumbled, and the words contained none of the tension they had a moment ago when leveled at Elizabeth.

The pair behind him exchanged a concerned glance before Weir stepped up behind McKay and placed a hand upon his shoulder. "What don't we understand?" she asked quietly.

"I'm tired," McKay answered softly, and he felt the hand tighten on his shoulder.

"We know, Rodney," Elizabeth started to reply, but he shook his head.

"No, not that…well, yeah that too but…no, I'm just tired of...tired of people sacrificing themselves just to rescue me," Rodney closed his eyes, stiffening a little, not believing he had actually confessed it aloud. "First it was just Ford; you know…doing what he was supposed to, all that…military hero crap…shoving me through the event horizon when the puddle jumper was stuck in the Gate. Then there was Peter and…well, yeah I know he died saving _all_ of us, but I never…There was nothing I could do; I couldn't stop it."

Weir looked at her Chief Surgeon; Beckett's expression mirrored her own. The Tin Man _did_ have a heart and it was currently bleeding all over the floor.

"Rodney…"

"And Griffin. What was _that_? Just like Ford, shoving me out of the way like nothing…nothing I said mattered and just let himself be…" McKay exhaled in a ragged sigh.

"Rodney," Elizabeth repeated firmly as she came around from behind him and the scientist looked up at her, blue eyes stricken. "What is it? What happened on Istura?" She suspected that something had either surfaced in Rodney's memory, or he had held tightly to something unspoken since John had been taken captive.

"He…" Rodney motioned with his good hand toward John, "…did the same idiot thing…and I just _stood_ there…"

_"Come on, McKay, keep up willya?" Sheppard called back over his shoulder as he hiked straight up the hillside, taking the straightest line back to the puddlejumper that still avoided the fire line. "We're on a bit of a tight schedule here."_

_Huffing along behind the colonel, Rodney spared enough breath to snap back, "Not all of us...were built…to play commando, Colonel..." There must have been something in his voice, because John abruptly stopped several paces ahead of him and looked back._

_"You okay?" Sheppard asked loudly, having to raise his voice to be heard above the rising winds. He flicked his gaze briefly past Rodney, trying to gauge how quickly the fire was moving toward them—and the Gate—before returning to the heavily breathing scientist hiking to him._

_Rodney waved him off dismissively, but the colonel remained where he was until they were together again. "Fine," he got out after a great gulp of air—followed by a round of sharp coughing. "Smoke's a little...heavy."_

_"Yeah, I know," Sheppard glanced about them but had a hand on Rodney's shoulder. "It's not that much farther ahead." McKay nodded slightly, indicating he was ready to go on and together they forged ahead, topping the rise below which, on the flat near the Stargate, was the jumper._

_"We made it," Rodney huffed a little, pausing long enough to catch his breath once again._

_"Let's not get all happy just yet; we've gotta dig out that firebreak!" John shouted back, his hand tracing a circle in the air indicating the ditch he intended to blast around the perimeter of the Gate. Rodney nodded sharply, working to gain control over the harsh urge to cough more._

_"We'd better get moving!" Rodney shouted at last, blinking eyes that watered from the acrid air. "The way that wind's picking up…the wildfire's going to overtake us anytime now! I don't know about you, but being incinerated didn't make my list of things to do today!" He brushed past John, heading down toward the jumper, and with one last uneasy look around them, John followed suit. The faster they did what they could to protect the Gate, the better off they'd be…hopefully. The incline was just steep enough that Rodney was paying more attention to his feet than his surroundings, which was his first mistake._

_His second mistake was in not listening to his team leader._

_"Rodney! Drop!" Sheppard's shout, instead of prompting McKay to the commanded action, served to bring the scientist's head up to see what the fuss was about..._

_…thereby exposing his body directly to the strike already being delivered by a hirsute man wearing a loose scarf about his face and carrying something resembling a large baton. The baton or whatever it was, smashed into his chest and while the TAC vest helped absorb some of the force behind the blow, it drove the breath out of him and McKay staggered backward several paces. He was fairly doubled over when another pair of strong hands jerked him up and pulled him aside. McKay was vaguely aware of Sheppard, P-90 at the ready, standing off with roughly half a dozen men all veiled and armed with the odd-looking batons, as the man who held him pressed a blade of some sort to his neck._

_"You don't wanna do this!" Sheppard shouted to be heard above the high wind and the growing roar of the approaching firestorm. "Let him go! This thing'll do some real damage!"_

_Rodney struggled to inhale normally, but between the thickening smoke and what must surely be bruised—if not broken—ribs, he could only manage to pull in short breaths punctuated with painful coughs. Cradling his ribs carefully with his right arm, he looked up at the Colonel. There was…something cold, something that made Rodney shiver to see, residing in the hazel eyes that stared down the big man that had used him for batting practice._

_"So will this!" the man replied, shouting as well, but with a calmness that easily matched John, as he brandished the baton. On closer inspection, Rodney could see the blunt end that had caught him across the chest. It didn't look as heavy, or as large, as it had felt. But it was the small button near to the wielder's hand that caught his attention, as his attacker casually depressed it. The crackle of energy could be both heard—and seen—traveling the length of the weapon._

_McKay's eyes widened as he looked up sharply at Sheppard; he supposed he should have expected something akin to a taser in some developing society somewhere in this perfectly screwed-up galaxy. However, after viewing firsthand the devastation wrought by the Wraith, he wasn't exactly expecting it from people exhibiting pre-industrial standards. One look at the colonel told him that Sheppard could hear the menacing snap and hum of the energy baton, even above the sounds of the approaching firestorm; a slight tightening of his jaw. Sheppard's hands, however, remained steady on the P-90 and his eyes never lost their deadly calm or alert attention._

_"Doesn't have to be this way!" John called out._

_"I'm afraid it does, Colonel Sheppard!" Rodney's gaze snapped back from John's leveled P-90 to the taser-wielding maniac beside him, something close to panic in his expression. "Oh yes, I know who you are, Dr. McKay." The joyless eyes made Rodney's blood run cold._

_"Who are you, and what do you want from us?" Rodney demanded; flinching just slightly as at least four more of the batons were activated behind him. Taser-Boy's only reply was a flat stare._

_"We don't have time for this!" John's shout drew both their attentions. The hazel eyes were watchful, John having shifted just slightly to the right as the others had come closer to Rodney. "That fire's gonna be on top of us pretty fast! If you ever wanna Gate off this planet again, you let us go now!"_

_"I don't think so, Colonel," the man answered, an exaggerated care in his motions as he drew closer to Rodney and the man who still held him at knifepoint. "You see, I've been sent here to collect something that is of great value," He gazed at Rodney briefly. "The hero that saved the city of the Ancestors from the great storm." He circled around, an almost inquisitive look in eyes that up close, Rodney noted, were dark, almost black. "Or so I'm told. I'm not sure I believe it."_

_"Hero…?" McKay echoed blankly; in normal circumstances he'd have welcomed a bit of ego-stroking, but these were far from normal circumstances. His mind raced; there was only one way Taser-Boy would know anything about it. Sheppard, however, beat him to it._

_"Who sent you? Kolya? Ladon?" the colonel demanded, but received no answer. "In that case, I'd say you're a little misinformed. Lemme set things straight; _I'm_ the one who saved Atlantis, not Bill Nye the Science Guy here."_

"He called you Bill Nye?" Elizabeth lifted an eyebrow in an amused expression.

"I know; can you believe it? I mean, okay, go ahead and save my life but there's no reason to be insulting," Rodney complained briefly before waving his good hand slightly to stave off further interruption.

_"Sheppard!" Rodney exclaimed, annoyed at the implied insult and yet afraid of what the colonel was trying to do. "He's crazy," he said to Taser-Boy, rapid-fire. "Okay, so he has an almost membership in Mensa but between the two of us, I'm the real genius."_

_"Take a good look!" John called. "Do you really think he could take out almost seventy of the Genii on his own?" He paused before pressing home his point. "I did. All on my own, not that I'm bragging or anything."_

_Unbelievably, Taser-Boy hesitated, and Rodney gaped. "Are you seriously considering this?" he actually demanded, and John glared at him briefly, just short of telling him to shut up. Rodney shut up._

_"Who sent me is irrelevant," the man answered with a shrug. "Whether or not this involves the Genii makes little difference in your situation, Sheppard."_

_"But it might make a difference in yours!" John called back. "I imagine you want to take the right person back with you, as it might prove embarrassing if you don't." The colonel carefully sidestepped to the right once again, keeping Taser Boy's minions covered. Rodney sucked in a startled gasp as the knife's edge bit just slightly into his skin; John instantly froze._

_"I should just…accept that you will put down your weapon and come willingly." Taser Boy challenged, and the charged baton swung toward Rodney, stopping mere inches from his chest, eliciting a startled yelp from him. "In exchange for his life?" he offered casually._

_"Colonel!" Rodney shouted; panic blossoming in his chest at how quickly south this was going. "No!"_

_"In exchange for his life," Sheppard replied steadily. Hazel eyes would not meet his, and McKay swallowed tightly, the motion reminding him of the blade at his throat, not that he needed much reminding. Slowly Sheppard's right hand came off the trigger of the P-90, his left pulling the weapon away from his body._

_Rodney was filled with a sick dread as he watched John gradually crouch down, eyes never leaving his adversary, to place the gun down in the grass. Just as gradually he stood back to his feet, palms displayed._

"He just…traded himself away for me," Rodney murmured, his expression distressed. "Just like that." He snapped his fingers. Elizabeth shared another worried look with Carson before responding.

"Why didn't you tell me this before," she questioned gently, "when you first came back from Istura?"

"I didn't remember it right away," McKay replied with tired honesty. "All I could think about when I came to was how much it hurt and those Gate symbols."

Elizabeth nodded slightly; the scientist had awakened in the Infirmary, voice hoarse from smoke inhalation, frantic and babbling about a partial Stargate address and how they had to hurry if they were going to figure out the rest of it. It had taken several hours and some sleep for McKay to remember the significance of those symbols and why they had to hurry, but by then Zelenka—escorted by Major Lorne's team—had been sent back to retrieve as much information from the Isturan DHD as possible and had constructed a list of possible addresses to begin searching for Colonel Sheppard.

"I know, and without that information we could very well _still_ be looking for him," Weir emphasized, knowing that McKay would be well aware of the permutations—720 to be exact—of a Stargate address. Despite the successful effort to firebreak the area around the Stargate, the Isturan DHD had taken some damage and Zelenka had been hard-pressed to decipher much in the way of address information from it. The fact that McKay had come away with three of the address' symbols in their correct order had been huge.

"Ye saved his life, Rodney," Carson interjected, agreeing with the Atlantis administrator. "But makin' ye' self sick is no' goin' ta do any good for either o' ye now. Listen ta Elizabeth an' get some sleep."

"But that's just it," McKay sighed. "His life shouldn't have _needed_ saving. He shouldn't have done that, shouldn't have…" He snapped his mouth shut abruptly as Sheppard stirred slightly, the sounds of conversation finally penetrating the medicated fog in which he'd slept. As the dark head turned restlessly on the pillow, the motion drew Beckett's attention as well, the Scot moving to the colonel's bedside.

"_Had t' save 'im…_" Sheppard mumbled softly and for a moment the other three froze in place, concerned he may have overheard their conversation. "_Couldn' just leave 'im…had t' go back, sir_…"

"It's just a dream, lad," Carson intoned reassuringly, resting a hand on John's shoulder. "Go back ta sleep now, it's all over." For a long moment, Carson watched John's features closely; uncertain if the colonel would actually heed the nudge to his subconscious or if he'd fully awaken. For a brief moment, just as with Wickley and Rodney earlier, hazel eyes fluttered open drowsily.

"_Go 'way…lemme sleep_," John slurred tiredly and his eyelids closed again. Carson chuckled lightly and patted the colonel's shoulder.

"That's exactly what we're goin' ta do," the physician encouraged and turned to face the other two, pointing sharply toward the exit to the small critical care suite. Elizabeth moved immediately, but remained in possession of Rodney's laptop, giving the physicist little choice but to get up and follow her out, however reluctantly. Carson brought up the rear, ushered the pair a few steps away, and simply pointed to a nearby bed before Rodney could get a word out. "_Now_," he said firmly, "Else I have ye sedated, and ye know I will."

McKay blinked, his mouth open to protest, but he closed it a moment later, knowing full well that Beckett's threat was not to be taken lightly. At least he was being allowed to stay nearby. He could deal with that. Turning to Elizabeth, however he snapped his fingers impatiently. "Give it," he demanded, motioning toward himself.

"When you've had some sleep and not before," Elizabeth replied archly, maintaining her distance. "I'll bring it with me when I come back later."

"What's this; take away the toy until the end of the term? There's a lab full of computer equipment at my beck and call…"

"Hmm…maybe," Weir replied with some amusement before turning the touchscreen toward the two men. "But this is the only one I know of around here with a Celine Dion screensaver." The look on McKay's face was priceless, she had to admit and Beckett chuckled slightly in spite of himself.

"Give me that…!" McKay gulped, embarrassed.

"Aye, but she's a lovely lass and such a nice voice," Carson defended Rodney but there was a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Very funny," Rodney sniped but it lacked any energy. He reached up and rubbed his eyes despite himself and abruptly his shoulders slumped. "All right, fine you win." Waving them both away, the scientist made his way to the bed Carson had indicated. Without even bothering to take off his jacket, or his shoes for that matter, Rodney stretched out on the bed. "Don't even _think_ about poking around," he warned Elizabeth, stabbing his forefinger in her direction. "There's a lot of important scientific data and no less than a half dozen _critical_ projects in progress in there. The last thing we need is to have valuable research screwed for the sake of…entertainment at my expense." Without another word, Rodney closed his eyes, missing entirely the amused expressions shared between Elizabeth and Carson.

Drifting closer to the Scotsman, Weir simply handed over the notebook; it would save her having to remember it later. "Entertainment?" she whispered as they headed back toward Beckett's office. "Makes me wonder what else he's got on here besides project data and Celine."

Beckett simply shook his head. "I'm afraid my curiosity does no' extend that far," he quipped as he placed the data pad aside to be returned when he was satisfied McKay had slept enough. "Thank ye, Elizabeth."

"Mm…glad to help," the administrator replied as she settled down into a chair across from the physician, a thoughtful look on her face. "I didn't realize Rodney felt so…responsible for what happened to John."

"Aye, an' I dunna think he's alone in that feelin'," Carson said pointedly, glancing up at Elizabeth as he sat down at the small desk in his office that wasn't exactly the model of neatness normally displayed by _her_ desk. Weir's eyebrows lifted in surprise at having been pegged so neatly by her head of medicine, but before she could comment, he continued, "Guilt has a way o' spreadin' itself around, an' if ye'r not careful, it could be used against ye, if ye take my meanin'."

"Caldwell," Weir's expression went from surprise to pensive in a matter of moments, and Carson nodded.

"Aye," he agreed. Neither of them were strangers to how the world worked, at least back on Earth, and the SGC wasn't exempt from the politics and foibles of humankind. It wouldn't be the first time someone had been raked over the coals because their international allies in the Stargate project had a problem with how things were done. Whether Caldwell's investigation had been instigated by the SGC directly or from higher up, Elizabeth didn't know, but she appreciated Carson's grasp of the situation.

"Well before I start packing my bags just yet," Weir replied dryly, earning her a wise look from the Scotsman, "Let me ask you about what Rodney said. Do _you_ think the Genii had something to do with this? Ronon certainly thinks so, from the 'wanted' picture of John he found on Istura, but I'm not so sure that Ladon would be interested in sabotaging the…truce between us so soon after we practically handed him the Genii leadership."

Beckett leaned back in his chair now, inclining his head slightly as he thought the question over.

"In a way," he said thoughtfully, "It would almost be better if they _did_…"

"The enemy you know," Elizabeth surmised, and Carson nodded.

"But I'd have ta say that from what I've seen o' Genii medicine, they dunna have the ability ta create a toxin as sophisticated as the one in Colonel Sheppard's system."

"No, but if it gave them some sort of tactical advantage, you can bet they'd find a way to make use of it. Traffic it, trade for it…" Weir waved a hand. "We're already familiar with the moral scruples of the Genii."

"An' one in particular," Carson said reluctantly.

"Acastus Kolya."

* * *

Waking up this time wasn't any more pleasant than it had been the last time, but at least it wasn't any worse. John reluctantly opened his eyes just slightly and risked turning his head on the pillow to afford him a view to his direct right. Thankfully the drum corps in his head seemed to be, if not at parade rest, at least thumping along at a more tolerable level. Pleased that the slight movement hadn't aggravated any persistent aching anywhere, he swept his gaze along the room on that side, his eyes lighting on a figure sitting in a nearby chair. Frowning slightly to himself he tried to place the face.

She was lithe and slender, and sat in the chair with her legs drawn up, her arms around her knees and her chin resting atop the right one. Her skin was a flawless cocoa and while her eyes were currently closed John imagined they were likely a shade of chocolate brown that he could drown in. Try as he might, however, he couldn't dredge up a name or anything else from his brain, despite the fact that she was obviously dressed in civilian clothes. Civilian clothes, he corrected himself mentally, that didn't seem to indicate something professional like a shrink or military officer.

"_Hi,_" he croaked out, and instantly the eyes snapped open. Sure enough, they were a deep brown and seemed to promise a gentle personality. Her head lifted away from her knee and she smiled warmly.

"John?" she inquired quietly and gracefully unfolded herself in the chair. "How are you feeling?" She watched him with what seemed to be a mixture of concern and expectation, and John carefully cleared his throat, not wishing to set off the unforgiving pain from his ribs.

"_Slightly better than dead,_" he quipped, and was rewarded with a worried look.

"Should I get Dr. Beckett?" she asked, and started to rise, but John just waved her off slightly.

"_Nah, s' okay,_" he reassured, aware once more that his right hand was about the only thing that didn't hurt to move. He was startled when she came to his side and took his hand in hers. Long fingers curled around his palm and she smiled at him.

"It is good to see you awake, John," she said warmly, and he noticed how the smile reached up into her eyes. "We have all been very worried for you." The woman squeezed his hand gently, and he blinked up at her, feeling suddenly very uncertain.

"_All…?_" he echoed warily, glancing past her to survey the immediate area. He could count on one hand the number of people who had been worried about him after Afghanistan, and this woman with the chocolate eyes certainly hadn't been one of them. The smile melted once again and her expression became troubled.

"Yes," she affirmed with a solid nod. "Many of us took part in the search; we could not give up on you." She paused briefly, swallowing hard. "For we knew you would not give up if one of us was missing."

"_You helped…?_" John inquired, his curiosity piqued. The smile returned slightly, and again she nodded to him.

"Yes, I did. In fact, I was part of the team that found you and brought you back."

John's eyes widened slightly in surprise; he hadn't expected that answer. There was nothing about this woman's demeanor that particularly screamed armed forces, U.S. or anywhere else for that matter and yet, there seemed to be…something strong about her. Strong-willed…a fighter.

"_Well…thanks_," he said awkwardly. Despite the apparent hole in his memory according to Doctors Weir and Beckett, John had the feeling that he owed this woman a lot more than simple thanks, but he couldn't seem to bring himself to go there; it still felt too weird, too surreal. "_But it'd be nice…to know who…I'm thanking_."

As with Elizabeth Weir earlier, and even the guy with the sling, Rodney, a fleeting look of disappointment crossed the woman's lovely features, but she squeezed his hand again reassuringly before speaking.

"I am Teyla Emmagan, daughter of Tagan," she introduced herself quite formally, as if they were meeting for the first time, and in essence they were. John blinked in confusion; this Teyla was different from anyone he could ever recall meeting before. "I realize this must be difficult for you," she said earnestly, and she watched him closely. A moment later she appended, "It is difficult for us as well, to know that you do not remember us."

John swallowed a bit, definitely feeling uncertain now.

"_How…how do I know you_?" he asked carefully. "_I mean, how did…we meet?_"

"You came to my people almost two years ago," Teyla responded, a slight smile appearing. "And offered us a place among you. I have served the…expedition alongside you ever since." As instructed by Elizabeth, Teyla kept her answers truthful yet generalized; when it was deemed appropriate, John would be told about Atlantis, the Stargate…and the Wraith.

John released Teyla's hand, mindful of the IV line still stuck in his own, and carefully rubbed his temple. It was more than a little disconcerting to be meeting all these people he was supposed to have worked closely with for two years and that he currently had no memory of. Part of him felt certain that if he'd met a beauty like this that he'd at least remember her face. He sighed softly.

"_Sorry_," he offered, as he realized that Teyla was quite right; it had to be hard on the rest of them, too.

"Do not worry about that now," Teyla said kindly, but firmly. "I should not have placed that burden on you. Your only concern now should be to rest and recover." As if afraid he might vanish before her very eyes, Teyla shifted her hand to his shoulder now, a gentle point of contact. "I am very glad we have you back, John."

It was very heartfelt; John could tell she meant it and he gave her a gentle, albeit wan, smile. That was nice, he had to admit…nice to feel like somebody cared in the real world. "_How long have you…been sitting there_?"

"For some time now," Teyla admitted, uncertain how much time had passed since taking up station next to the colonel as he'd slept. "Dr. Beckett said it would be all right to stay awhile."

"An' now I'm sayin' that the colonel needs ta take it easy an' not push himself," Beckett's steady brogue interrupted, and John turned his head slightly as the physician came within his line of sight. "How ye feelin' this mornin', lad?"

John exhaled carefully. "_Bored,_" he answered, and for a brief moment Carson could almost believe they had the old John back, but there was a bit of uncertainty in the hazel eyes, and he could tell from Teyla's demeanor that it was a bit of wishful thinking.

"Are ye now?" Carson asked as he leaned in with a penlight to check John's eyes, ignoring by necessity the slight grunt of protest from his patient. "Well, I'll be keepin' ye here as a guest 'til I'm satisfied with ye, Colonel, so we'll just have ta find a way ta keep ye occupied."

"_Great, Doc_," John grumbled, although he was well aware that he was unlikely to get out of bed, let alone out of the Infirmary just yet. "_Sounds like fun_."

"Appears ye have no' lost ye sense o' humor," Carson replied lightly, giving John a wise look that told the colonel that the physician had him fairly well-pegged. Which, in turn, made John wonder just what exactly had transpired in the past two years to make that so…and then to wonder if he really wanted to know the answer to that question. He glanced over to Teyla, who had taken a few steps aside to allow Carson room to work, but who didn't appear inclined to remark on the physician's comment.

"_Well…you know what…they say, Doc. Laughin' on the outside…cryin'…on the inside_," John quipped. Carson was fishing his stethoscope out of his lab coat pocket.

"I can give ye that, laddie;" the physician conceded. "Ye insides took a fair bit o' abuse." He took a moment to cup the stethoscope's diaphragm in his hands, allowing for some warming of the instrument; he could appreciate the effect of a cold stethoscope upon an already maltreated and painful chest. A few moments later he put the earpieces into his ears and prepared to give a listen. "Colonel, go easy, but I want ye ta give me a pair o' deep breaths, deep as ye can."

Despite the attempt at warming up the metal, John still flinched slightly as Carson placed the stethoscope against the thin covering of the hospital gown. In the colonel's battered condition, it had been deemed more expedient but Carson knew that memory loss or not, likely John would be asking for scrubs. All professionalism aside, the Scot couldn't blame him one bit.

"_I swear you doctors…get your kicks from…those cold things,_" Sheppard complained around giving the Scotsman that pair of deep breaths. Beckett gently slid the stethoscope over.

"No' me, lad," Carson said as innocently as he could manage. "I went in ta medicine with the principle that I would no' subject ma patients ta cold hands." John actually chuckled slightly, before his amusement was overtaken by a short gasp and a deeper groan.

"_Don't…oh crap, Doc…hurts to laugh_."

"Steady on, Colonel. Now, take a nice slow breath," Carson said apologetically. "I dinna mean ta set ye off." Carson flicked his gaze upward from his patient briefly; John was aware of Teyla close by once again, a worried cast to her features.

"_S' alright_," he reassured his visitor, and Teyla gave him a brief, tight smile, obviously not giving up her concerns very easily. "_Really…I'm just sore_." At the disbelieving look she leveled at him next, he smiled faintly. "_Okay, it hurts but not too bad_."

"Ye forget, laddie we've had a wee bit o' experience with ye, an' what ye mean by that," Carson accused but there was no sting in his voice, and John realized instinctively that the physician wasn't making light of his absent memories; he was simply stating fact.

"_Okay, I'll go...with that_," John allowed, and closed his eyes wearily, enduring the rest of Carson's observations. The moment the blood pressure cuff was deflated and Carson had the numbers scratched down, the hazel eyes opened back up. "_So...when can I talk to...Dr. Weir?_" he asked expectantly, fighting to appear at least recovered enough not to fall asleep in the middle of any conversation he might have with Weir.

Carson blinked, not having expected that particular question right away; John's body desperately needed time and good healing sleep to gain ground. And while Carson could completely understand the colonel's desire to begin working on retrieving a past that was lost to him, first things first. Speaking together in his office after Rodney had finally gone to sleep; Carson and Elizabeth had agreed not to subject John to information regarding Atlantis until the potential shock would not jeopardize his physical recovery. While John was far from fragile, his body had taken enough serious injury that matters of the mind would have to be treated secondary as a matter of course.

"I imagine Elizabeth will come 'round first chance she gets later on ta see how ye are," Carson answered honestly, mindful not to mention anything that would arouse suspicion in his patient as to his location or the expedition to which he belonged. "After all, lad, 'tis no' even nine in the mornin' yet."

That bit of information caught John slightly off guard, as Carson suspected it might; between all he had been through combined with pain medication and drifting in and out so much, the colonel's sense of time had been rather badly jumbled. Hazel eyes blinked a moment as his mind caught up, and then he nodded, acquiescing.

"_Any chance...I can get some coffee?_"

That was about the next most unexpected request, and most certainly out of the question, but before Beckett could deny it outright, the physician noticed the mischievous look in Sheppard's eyes.

"Ye playin' with me now...ye must be feelin' a wee bit better," Beckett shot him a wise look.

"I believe the precise words were 'slightly better than dead'," Teyla supplied easily—and quite willingly, John noted. Apparently the Braveheart doc wasn't kidding about them having some experience with him as a patient; in the past he _could_ recall, he'd been ratted out more than once by his buddies to their base doctor concerning various minor wounds and injuries. _Well, okay, so the bullet to the shoulder wasn't such a minor wound but I wasn't exactly trying to hide that one_. Sheppard wasn't aware he'd sighed aloud until he felt Beckett's hand at his shoulder, and he looked up, startled to find both of them watching him concernedly.

"_Just thinking_," he explained, hastening to reassure Beckett it had simply been a lapse in concentration that had produced his brief inattention, rather than any of his injuries. He swallowed uneasily, and glanced away; a thoughtful look had settled into the hazel eyes.

Carson realized he was unlikely to get out of the pilot what was on his mind, but he could begin to guess that Sheppard was starting to consider the questions of _where_ and _how_ and _why_ and _who_, and while perfectly natural, were likely unsettling. He glanced over his patient to Teyla, to find his concern mirrored in her expression.

"Perhaps I should let you get some rest," the Athosian suggested; her tone warm but tinged with care. John looked up then, uncertainty in the hazel gaze before it faded and he simply nodded agreement. "I will come back soon," she reassured, and oddly enough that seemed to calm the pilot.

"_Yeah..._" John murmured, and neither of them missed the fact that the pilot had begun to absently pick at the blanket with his right hand. After a beat, however he looked up at Carson. "_If...I'm asleep when...Dr. Weir comes down here_..."

"I'll wake ye, lad," Carson promised; although he would prefer to let John sleep as long as his body demanded, he also understood the pilot's growing need to understand what had happened now that he was settled and relatively on the path to mending.

John closed his eyes then, having secured the doc's word; he didn't know how or why, but he instinctively knew Beckett would keep his promise. His wearied body quickly dragged him back to sleep, despite any desire he might have to the contrary. Carson gently pulled the blanket up a bit, and checked the IV one last time before escorting Teyla as she left the critical care suite. The Athosian glanced back over her shoulder toward the sleeping figure they left behind, and Carson put a hand at her elbow, gently guiding her a few paces apart.

"The sleep'll do him good," he reassured her, but there was a hint of doubt in the dark, gentle eyes.

"John asked me how we knew one another," she said quietly, and there was a note of sadness in her voice. "It is his memory that has been affected and yet...I feel as if I am the one who lost something."

Carson hesitated at that point, and nodded reluctantly, not willing to consider as yet the thought that they might have lost the John Sheppard they had come to know. "Aye, lassie, I know what ye mean, but we canna give up on his memories, no' yet. This is just the start o' the road for him, an' while it'll be difficult at first, we have ta do everythin' we can ta bring him back," he said firmly, blue eyes meeting Teyla's thoughtful gaze. "_All_ the way back."

"Of course," Emmagan affirmed; her expression steeling into one of resolve. With every fiber of her being, she would do whatever was required of her to complete the mission: to rescue John Sheppard. Having him back physically was not enough. "Anything you ask, I will do for him," she vowed, and Carson was once again struck with the level of loyalty the colonel had inspired in his team.

"Well for now, lassie, I'd ask ye to go an' get some breakfast," he said, giving her a sharp look. "Dunna think I dinna notice ye slip in here practically at dawn and settle in with him." All right, perhaps it was a _slight_ exaggeration; Teyla hadn't arrived in the infirmary until after Rodney had fallen asleep, but the fact was that the Athosian had scarcely moved a muscle from the time she'd sat down beside John until the time he had awakened.

Unlike most of the others, Teyla rarely gave him argument when it came to observations of this sort; she might not like being chased out, but she would at least see reason. For a brief moment, Carson thought that this might be the first time she put up a fuss. The dark eyes flicked back toward the suite where John slept, and she hesitated.

"Carson..."

"Ye'll be one o' the first ta know if anythin' changes with him," Beckett reassured her. "Now go an' get ye'r breakfast, an' if it would make ye feel any better ta be on a mission o' mercy, ye can bring a wee bit o' fresh coffee back with ye. They usually send it down by now, but I think someone's asleep at the switch this mornin'."

"I will do better than that," Teyla gave the physician a heartfelt smile. "I will bring you back some breakfast. I doubt you will leave John long enough to secure your own, and as the mess hall crew seem to be a little behind on your...deliveries for the morning, it is the least I can do."

Carson smiled back in return. "Thank ye, love," he said appreciatively. "That would be vera welcome."

Teyla slipped out into the hallway, and the smile melted almost immediately, replaced by an expression of tense concern. The short time she had spent at John's side had simply served to reinforce the feeling she had that they _must_ return to Istura; not only to find those responsible, but if in any way it could aid in returning John's memory to him, it had to be attempted. Surely Elizabeth must see it; if not, she must be made to see it. That, however, would have to wait. Teyla knew that Elizabeth had suspended Gate activity, and at the present moment she had promised Carson some breakfast.

However, it could not—must not—wait much longer.

* * *

"Got a minute?"

Marcus Lorne looked up from his work to see Colonel Caldwell in the doorframe, and he straightened up in his chair, away from the paperwork he was attempting to complete in Colonel Sheppard's absence. "Of course, Sir," Lorne replied. "What can I do for you?"

"You wear that desk pretty well for a major," Caldwell commented as he came further into the small office area, and in spite of himself, Marcus squirmed slightly.

"Just keeping the chair warm for my CO," he responded at last, and picked up a pen, tapping it idly against the edge of the desk.

"Be that as it may, I understand the responsibility," Caldwell shrugged loosely and took up a seat across from Lorne, his sharp eyes sweeping over the desk and its myriad contents. "Looks like half of it'll be figuring out Colonel Sheppard's...organizational...system."

"You got that right, Colonel," Lorne couldn't help but agree with a slight smile; Sheppard's lack of affinity for all things paperwork related was well-known among the senior staff and most of the military contingent under his command. He sobered quickly, however and continued, "I'm sure I'll make out just fine, Sir."

"Mmm-hmm," the _Daedalus'_ commander agreed noncommittally. "I imagine almost a month's backlog is a little bit to wade through." He leaned back in the chair a bit and folded his arms casually over his chest. "Maybe I can give you a hand with some of it."

"Excuse me, Sir?" Lorne hedged a little, growing distinctively uncomfortable at the turn of conversation.

"I would like to ask you for Colonel Sheppard's initial assessment report on the original mission to M3D-855, if you don't mind," Caldwell prompted. _M3D-855—Istura_, Lorne realized. That was one designation he was not likely to ever forget as long as he lived.

"I'm sure Dr. Weir has a copy of that report, Colonel," Marcus replied; he didn't necessarily like the idea of the other man rummaging around in Sheppard's office, disorganized or not, looking for who knew what. Never mind the fact that Caldwell was a full bird colonel; Marcus' first instinct was to back up his CO. He couldn't have said exactly why he was feeling so protective of Colonel Sheppard, but he had long learned to follow his gut instincts. More than often they were right.

"I'm sure she does," Caldwell agreed. "But Dr. Weir has a full enough plate for today and I'd like you to help me out, Major." He shifted in the chair, leaning forward and bringing his posture to bear on Sheppard's 2IC. For his own part, Lorne unconsciously frowned, and the colonel's eyebrows lifted. "Do I have to make that an order, Lorne?"

"No, Sir," Lorne answered perfunctorily, and he shifted his attention to a particular stack of printouts; within it was the particular report Caldwell was asking for; Colonel Sheppard's initial recommendation that they return to Istura to establish relations with the inhabitants. It was the work of several moments to locate it; once done, the major reluctantly handed it over to the waiting colonel.

"Thank you, Major," Steven received the paper and pushed up to his feet. He started toward the doorway before pausing and looking back around; Marcus wiped the frown from his face and paid attention. "You'll be around later so we can talk, right?" The question was pointed, and again just shy of an actual order, but the major knew it was to be regarded as one nonetheless.

"Yes, Sir," he answered simply; there was no need for elaboration and he didn't feel particularly compelled to speak further anyway.

"Good. I'll see you later then, say, thirteen-thirty in the mess hall?"

"I'll be there," Lorne replied, recognizing Caldwell's demeanor as that of a senior officer expecting a request to be treated accordingly. The colonel nodded firmly and went on his way, leaving the major to wonder why, when Dr. Weir had requested full cooperation with this investigation, he didn't want to, at all.

Perhaps it had more to do with lingering concerns about what happened to Colonel Sheppard during those three weeks, and the fact that there was no evidence either for or against him breaking while captive and giving up valuable information. _Well, except for the fact that so far there have been no Wraith hives picked up on the long-range scanners_. Of course, leave it to the obvious answer.

The only thing Marcus could fall back on was his favorite movie quote of all time: _I've got a bad feeling about this_. "I'm with you, Luke buddy," he muttered to himself as he returned his attention to the particular mission summary he'd been writing for Colonel Sheppard. "Me, too."

* * *

Ronon looked up instinctively as motion near the door caught his attention; the ingrained habits from years of fighting and running from the Wraith kept him at a state of heightened awareness, although he was slowly learning to "let his hair down," as Sheppard had put it when they were off-duty. During the search for Sheppard, however, there had been precious few opportunities to relax, and even now that the colonel was back, the Satedan still felt unsettled.

Noting Teyla's entrance into the mess hall, Ronon paused long enough to shovel another spoonful of scrambled eggs, his head lowering slightly to take the bite but his gaze still roving around the mess hall. It was another few bites before Teyla approached him, and Ronon simply nodded to the chair on the opposite side of the table, indicating the Athosian should join him.

"Mornin'," he greeted around another mouthful of eggs, and watched as Teyla settled gracefully into the chair indicated and prepared to begin her own meal. She picked up her tea, wrapping her hands around the mug and inhaling the spicy fragrance before taking a long, slow sip.

"Good morning, Ronon," Teyla replied as she lowered the mug somewhat. Ronon simply scrunched his nose a little; he didn't know what was in that Athosian brew, he only knew he didn't like the smell of it.

"You really like that stuff?" he asked absently as he picked up a piece of toast and took a bite. Some of the Earth food wasn't too bad. Toast had seemed a pretty pointless thing until McKay had introduced him to the joys of cinnamon and sugar.

"It is an ancient recipe among my people," Teyla responded, bringing the mug to her lips once again for another savored sip. "It is how we greet the day."

"Stinks," Ronon pronounced, blunt and to the point as ever. He ate more of the toast, thinking he might have to get more of the sweet treat. Cinnamon was not a known spice on Sateda; McKay had been amused to say the least with how exotic it seemed to the former Runner. For awhile, everything Ronon ate that the spice would compliment, and even a few things that it _didn't_, received a liberal dosing. "Needs cinnamon," he advised helpfully.

He received a raised eyebrow for his trouble as Teyla calmly regarded him over the rim of her mug. "It needs nothing," she countered, before drinking more of the brew. That was fine as far as Ronon was concerned; the sooner it was gone, the sooner he didn't have to smell it anymore. "From the time I was old enough to greet the day with my father, I have had this tea every morning."

"Still didn't answer the question," Ronon pointed at the mug with his spoon. "You like it?"

"You should try it," Teyla replied simply. "You may find that your initial assessment is incorrect."

"Yeah...right," Ronon half-snorted and then reached for his own glass. "'Bout as much chance of that as McKay takin' me in a fight." A slight smile twitched at Teyla's lips briefly before she reached across the table and placed the offending mug of tea squarely in front of the Satedan.

"You do not mean to tell me that you are defeated by something as simple as a cup of tea?" Teyla's voice was light, but there was an undercurrent of challenge to it, just enough to bait the tall fighter. Ronon simply glared at her as he swallowed juice, draining half the glass. Putting the glass down, the Satedan regarded the tea warily, but having been put to it, he lifted the mug and took a mouthful.

The look of surprise on Ronon's face was so complete that for a moment Teyla fully expected him to spit it out; she glanced around briefly to be certain no one was about to be showered in Athosian tea. He swallowed and glanced at the mug before proceeding to drink the rest of it, to Teyla's utter amusement. She merely gazed at him with a knowing expression before saying, "Yes, I like it."

"Didn't tell me it was sweet," Dex protested.

"You did not ask," was Emmagan's gentle, but pointed reply, to which she simply received a short grunt in return.

"You been to see Sheppard?" Ronon asked, shifting the topic abruptly. This time it was Teyla's turn to be uncomfortable, and Ronon picked up on it instantly. "He okay?"

"John is as well as he can be," Teyla answered, somewhat evasively, her dark eyes downcast. Her fork was in her hand, but she merely picked a bit at her breakfast. When there was no further comment, she glanced up to see Ronon staring at her expectantly, and she sighed. "It is as Elizabeth said; he does not remember us."

"Been thinkin' about that," Ronon replied, and finished off his eggs. "Gotta be tough, wakin' up in a strange place. People you don't know. That you're _supposed_ to know."

"I am sure it is very...unsettling for John," Teyla agreed, and she finally started eating, although she wasn't all that hungry now. "I cannot imagine what he must feel like." Pushing around a bite of waffle—like Ronon she had grown fond of certain Earth foods—she sighed softly.

"What?" Ronon asked. While he wouldn't go to great lengths to draw a person out unless it was imperative, he did understand the value of a verbal prompt.

"I believe Dr. Weir has made a mistake in not allowing us to return to Istura," Teyla answered after a beat, her expression earnest. "I know she believes she is doing what is best for Atlantis, but I am not certain it is what is best for _John_."

"Been thinkin' about that, too," Ronon admitted, glancing longingly at the now-empty tea cup. The sweetness of the Athosian beverage more than made up for its pungent odor. "Gotta be a way to convince her...we still got that Genii picture around here?"

"What do you have in mind?" Emmagan wanted to know, looking up curiously.

"We link that picture to the village and she'll have to let us go back," Dex explained with a simple shrug of his shoulders. "If we can't trust the Genii, okay then...we use it. Don't trust 'em."

"I promised Dr. Beckett some breakfast," Teyla remarked with a slight smile. "But then I am certain we can get a copy of that picture. How do you plan to prove a connection to the Isturans?"

"Got an idea...gonna talk to McKay."

"In that case," Teyla finally began to eat her waffles in earnest, "you can accompany me back to the Infirmary. Dr. Beckett insisted that Dr. McKay get some sleep."

"What...drugged 'im or somethin'?" Ronon's eyebrows lifted slightly; the very idea was amusing. The scientist could be annoying, no doubt; more than once Ronon had wanted to knock the man out himself. But there was also no denying that when it came down to it, Rodney McKay was part of this team. He would—and had—put his life on the line for the rest of them, no matter how awkwardly or reluctantly it seemed.

It had been a long time since Dex had known people willing to take such risks for others, and for that reason alone the Satedan would not hesitate to do the same for them—even McKay, no matter how irritating the man might get. He gave a lot of credit for that to Sheppard's trust in him; all the more reason in his mind to go back to Istura and make those who'd hurt Sheppard pay for what they'd done. They'd been lucky that he'd been too busy carrying the badly wounded colonel to take care of business right then and there. He had no doubt Teyla would've helped.

"Not quite," Teyla answered him with a knowing look. "However, we may have to wait for a time to speak with Dr. McKay; I do not think Dr. Beckett would be pleased if we awakened him just now."

"S'okay," Ronon shrugged. "McKay's worried about Sheppard too." Across from him, Teyla nodded thoughtfully.

"Yes...as we all are."

* * *

The Gate room was quiet; there were few personnel in and out of the control area as Gate activity remained suspended and to the casual observer, operations were normal; an average day in Atlantis. _As average,_ Elizabeth mused, _as we ever _get_ in Atlantis_.

From her office, she observed the few comings and goings in the command center, most notably several appearances of Radek Zelenka. Given the fact that Rodney was still asleep in the Infirmary and had he _been_ awake he'd be researching the Ancient database for answers Carson needed regarding John, the Czech had taken on some of Rodney's daily duties.

After about his fourth appearance in the command center, Elizabeth was about to get up and ask him if there was some sort of problem, when another presence in her doorway captured her attention, and she looked up to see Kate Heightmeyer tapping on the doorframe.

"Kate, come in," she straightened up in her chair and motioned for the counselor to enter. Kate smiled warmly and did so, taking the chair Elizabeth had indicated with a wave of her hand. "What can I do for you?"

"I'd like to talk to you about Colonel Sheppard," Heightmeyer answered politely, and Elizabeth's expression immediately changed to one of concern.

"Of course," Weir responded instantly; John hadn't strayed far from her thoughts all afternoon despite her own duties. "I expected we'd need to talk sooner rather than later. Have you seen him yet? John, I mean?"

"Not yet," Kate answered, keeping her manner and tone relaxed to encourage the same in her expedition leader. "I realize Dr. Beckett has limited the Colonel's visitors due to the extent of his injuries and that's perfectly understandable but I've spoken to Carson and wanted to speak with you as well, regarding the next steps in Colonel Sheppard's recovery."

"You mean his memory," Elizabeth stated the obvious, but she laced her fingers together on her desktop, leaning forward anxiously. "How likely do you think it'll be that John will regain his memory?" The psychologist sitting across the desk canted her head slightly.

"I'd like to be able give you a definitive answer, trust me, but unfortunately I can't," Heightmeyer replied. "What we know about the mind and memory is an inexact science, and something like this is very unpredictable." She paused a moment, allowing Weir a chance to catch up, watching the various emotions play—even if ever so slightly—across the expedition leader's face. "Widespread, total amnesia is a rare occurrence, although it's been documented as happening. More often, a victim of amnesia loses anywhere from a few minutes to a few hours' memory, especially if the memory loss is connected to something like a massive head injury, or as a defense mechanism from severe psychological trauma."

"Both of which obviously have been in John's recent past thanks to this," Elizabeth remarked worriedly, glancing away from Kate, down to her desk and her tightly clasped hands. When she looked up, her eyes were narrowed in concentration. "Do you have any idea what we can expect?"

"Only possibilities, really," the psychologist admitted with a soft exhalation. "Especially since I haven't had a chance to evaluate how he's handling the situation to begin with. Given the fact that Colonel Sheppard's memory loss involves a specific time frame—the time he's been _here_, in Atlantis—I'm inclined to consider the possibility of memory suppression as a way to cope with what he was experiencing." Kate made a small motion with her hands. "I'm also aware there are other circumstances of Colonel Sheppard's captivity that may play a factor in this. Carson felt it was important that I know about the substance the colonel was subjected to since it's such a large variable."

Elizabeth nodded unconsciously; she trusted Carson's discretion in the matter, and knew that Kate would keep the information confidential. "What can we do to help him?" she wanted to know. Anything would be better than simply sitting around waiting. "Atlantis needs her military commander." _So do I,_ she thought to herself briefly. She had come to rely on John Sheppard's steady presence, good instincts and sharp mind in her position here as expedition leader. "Preferably in one piece mentally as well as physically."

"I'd like a chance to talk with him first," Kate prefaced, and frowned slightly when Elizabeth smothered a chuckle. "What?"

"Well, from John's initial reaction to me when he thought I was a 'shrink,' I don't know how eager _he'll_ be to talk with _you_," Weir explained with a slight smile. To her surprise, Heightmeyer smiled as well.

"Good to know some things don't change," Kate answered back. John Sheppard was notorious for being close-mouthed to begin with; if there was one place he avoided more than the Infirmary when possible, it was Kate's office. "After all, I'd be disappointed if he went easy on me."

Elizabeth's smile faded and her expression softened into one of worry. There were so many variables, so many unknowns when it came to John's situation. "And in the meantime? Until you have that chance to talk with him?" she asked, well aware that she was on Carson's short-list of visitors allowed to see his patient.

"In the meantime, continue to be honest with him without introducing too many details. If Colonel Sheppard asks direct questions, give him direct answers but keep it as simple as possible. The last thing he needs after this kind of trauma is to become more overwhelmed than he likely is already."

"There's nothing simple about any of this. Pegasus...Atlantis. The Wraith," Elizabeth frowned sharply now. "It's all pretty overwhelming for _me_, still. How is it not going to be overwhelming for John?" Across from her, Kate inclined her head slightly, conceding the point.

"It will be, no doubt about it, but we can try to minimize the initial shock for him."

Elizabeth exhaled slowly and nodded. "Very well, then. I'll do my best...and I'll keep you in the loop," she promised. "I'm sure I could use all the help I can get. Thank you."

Kate smiled a little now as she pushed up from the chair. "You're welcome, Dr. Weir," she affirmed. "We all want the same thing here, and while I can't promise we'll get it, I'll do everything I can to help the process along."

The psychologist exited the office area and Elizabeth looked out to the control balcony and the quiet activity there, but her attention wasn't focused on the personnel there. Instead, her thoughts strayed to the Infirmary, and a certain Lieutenant Colonel, and the rather uncomfortable conversation she knew would await her there.

* * *

"_Mm...uhh_..." Slowly, groggily, blue eyes opened and blinked, before staring straight up. For a brief moment, Rodney frowned, trying to remember where he was, before wincing sharply and moving his left hand to his right arm. "_Oww_..." he mumbled, irritated at the deep aching in his injured shoulder that he realized was probably the reason he was awake. "Crazy kid," he grumbled tiredly. "This is _his_ fault."

"I knew ye'd overdone it," Carson's brogue interrupted his waking thoughts as the physician crossed over to the bed onto which Rodney had fairly collapsed earlier. "How bad is it, Rodney, naught ta ten?"

"It _hurts_, all right?" McKay snapped grumpily. "Where does that fall on your scale?" Awkwardly he started to push himself upright with his left hand and Carson got an arm behind him, helping him in the effort. "How long have I been asleep?" the scientist suddenly demanded in growing horror as he realized it must be at least mid-afternoon if not later from the sunlight slanting across the Infirmary floor.

"Relax, Rodney, ye've only been sleepin' a wee while," Carson's hand shifted to Rodney's good shoulder, slowing his patient down in his sudden rush to get up. "It's no' even noon yet...about a quarter 'til. Ye have no' been asleep quite six hours, an' ye ask me, ye could do with more."

"Well I'm not asking you, am I?" McKay huffed, although the tight wince that crossed his features took the attitude out of his words. "_Seven_," he admitted suddenly, paling slightly as the soreness in his shoulder took on an urgent note.

"All right, then. Just lie back a moment an' we'll take care o' that," Carson coaxed, with just a slight bit of pressure on Rodney's good shoulder. As his patient was still somewhat groggy and sore, it didn't take much convincing to get him to lie back against the pillows once more. "Anita, would ye be a love an' get me some meperidine, 100 milligrams IM?" Carson addressed one of his nearby nurses, and as she moved off to do so, he carefully eased the sling from Rodney's shoulder as the scientist had not bothered with it earlier. Unbuttoning Rodney's shirt, the physician found the joint as he expected it to be—swollen, hot and incredibly tender to the touch. Not surprisingly, Rodney flinched and sucked in a sharp breath despite Carson's gentleness.

"_Carson!_ Are you _trying_ to kill me?" McKay exclaimed, as he cradled his right arm close to his chest.

"No' really," Carson answered calmly, although he leveled a serious look at the scientist. "Ye were meant ta go easy on that shoulder, Rodney, no' tryin' ta lift a child in ta a wheelchair," he chided gently.

"I already told you, puppy dog eyes, remember?" Rodney groaned; his face scrunched up in pain. "Big, _big_ puppy dog eyes."

"An' while I appreciate what ye tried ta do for the lad, an' for Colonel Sheppard, ye should no' done it on ye'r own. We'll get ye settled, first, an' then we'll run another scan; I'm afraid ye might a' set back ye'r recovery by a bit," Carson sighed softly. His eyes closed, Rodney missed the concerned look that crossed the physician's features. It was bad enough that the colonel had been so seriously injured. Rodney's shoulder had been healing nicely despite the lack of rest and near-constant tension they'd all been under while John was missing. Until now.

"How far back?" Rodney's eyes snapped open at that; he'd already started physiotherapy to regain strength in the shoulder and had been looking at perhaps another month before full range of motion was completely restored. Carson canted his head, his eyebrows lifting briefly.

"I'll know more when I've done the scan," Beckett said truthfully. The last thing he needed now was a panicked Rodney McKay on his hands. "For now, I want ye ta stay put." He was saved the expected protest from the scientist by the return of his nurse, and he set to swabbing down the injection site. "Anita, after we scan Dr. McKay's shoulder, he needs an icepack on it for the swellin', if ye'd see ta that? All right, Rodney, here we go..."

Carson deftly administered the injection, and rolled his eyes slightly at the expected complaint from McKay, "Ow! How big _is_ that needle anyway? I think you _are_ trying to kill me."

"Och, if I wanted ta kill ye off, Rodney, it's no' the needle ye need ta worry about," Carson grumbled lightly, but it was a familiar argument. "That'll likely make ye a bit drowsy," he warned, and was instantly treated to a patented Rodney McKay scowl. If he could have, the scientist would have folded his arms across his chest.

"Drowsy? Oh, no...I just woke up!" Rodney exclaimed. "You can't put me back to sleep; what about Sheppard? I have to get back to work!" The physicist swabbed his face with his good hand and rubbed his eyes briefly before nailing Carson with his best _you are so dead_ look, but Beckett was unmoved. "His life could depend on it! What were you thinking?"

"I'm thinkin' that ye are in too much pain ta do any good in that condition," the Scot replied steadily, "An' ye need the rest. Ye are no' the only one who can help with the database."

"No, but I'm the most proficient at it," Rodney asserted, back to scowling. "There's a very _short_ list of people here that even come _close_ to my level of knowledge regarding Ancient technology and face it, you—and Sheppard—need all the help you can get."

"Aye an' ye can continue helpin' when ye wake up," Carson was very matter-of-fact about it all, which irritated Rodney to no end. "Right now, ye can recommend me the person at the top o' that list."

Rodney exhaled in a long-suffering sigh, scowl still firmly in place, but it truly was too late to do anything about it now; it wouldn't be long before the drug began to affect him. At least this way he would be able to put someone on it that he trusted to be thorough about it. He thought for a moment, and then snapped his fingers.

"Little Ricky," he said, reaching up instinctively for his earpiece, and frowning when he didn't find it in its usual place.

"Who?" Carson asked; his expression quite puzzled.

"Little...Oh," Rodney realized the physician had no idea who he was referring to. "Hernandez. Ricardo? Enrique? Something... Some of the guys in the Chem section thought it would be funny because he brought along a DVD of 'I Love Lucy' episodes as his personal item when we first came to Atlantis... Anyhow, he's one of the better people I have when it comes to Ancient equipment and the database in particular. He's not nearly as good as I am, of course, but he's generally very detail-oriented and for this kind of thing that's what you want."

Carson could have _sworn_ the entire monologue had been carried on in a single breath. Rodney looked up at him expectantly, since he was without his own earpiece.

"Ah, I see," the physician answered; what else could he say to that? "Ye dunna want Zelenka on it?"

"Zelenka's got bigger things to think about right now," Rodney waved his good hand dismissively. "With me in here, he's got the whole city to run and that's more than enough to keep his mind occupied." While it might seem like a not-so-subtle insult to the Czech's intelligence, Carson knew it better as Rodney's assertion that he trusted Radek's ability to oversee the day-to-day operations of Atlantis in his absence.

Nodding once, Carson tapped his own earpiece. "Beckett ta Dr. Hernandez," he said, glancing aside as he did so.

"_Sí, Señor Beckett?_" the Puerto Rican scientist responded. "_What can I do for you?_"

"Could ye come ta the Infirmary, Doctor?" Carson's request was reasonable enough. "We could use ye'r help with somethin' here."

"_Sí, I am coming to you,_" Hernandez confirmed. "_Hernandez, out_."

"_His accent's horr'ble_," Rodney mumbled tiredly; the pain medication taking a firm hold. Blue eyes blinked owlishly, and he abruptly chuckled. "_Look who 'm talkin' to 'bout that..._" The injured physicist gave a jaw-cracking yawn before he turned a pleased—albeit sleepy—smile to Anita, who had returned with one of the blue gel-packs for his shoulder. Carson just shook his head slightly and chalked it up to the medication; lately it was Katie Brown in Botany who had the physicist's eye.

"We'll get a scan," Carson addressed the nurse. "An' then we can let 'im sleep it off."

"_She's really pretty eyes, y'know?_" McKay slurred softly to Beckett with a vague motion toward the nurse.

"Go ta sleep, Rodney," the Scot prompted with an amused look at Anita, who was smiling a little herself.

"_Yes...yes...'course..._" Rodney yawned again, and his eyes drifted closed. Moments later, very faint snoring could be heard as the scientist's mouth fell open in sleep. Carson shook his head again.

"Well, lass," he addressed Anita. "Let's get a good look at his shoulder."

Carson crossed the main part of the Infirmary to prepare the Ancient scanner for the examination of Rodney's shoulder. On the near side of the room, Ronon sat up from where he'd slouched in a chair, drawing Teyla's attention as well and she lifted her head from the back of the chair she'd straddled.

"McKay awake yet?" Ronon asked, as he had every time Carson had emerged into the outer area during the past couple of hours, and the physician turned about abruptly.

"Aye, he was," Beckett said apologetically, and at the former Runner's frown, held up a hand. "His shoulder injury's givin' him a good bit o' pain an' I gave him somethin' for it. I know ye want ta speak with him, lad, but it'll have ta wait until he wakes again."

"No good at waiting," the Satedan ground out unhappily.

"I thought Dr. McKay's shoulder was healing well?" Teyla inquired now, a slightly more concerned cast to her features than Ronon's impatient expression.

"Aye, it _was_," Carson answered with a frustrated sigh. "He's aggravated the injury, the bugger; likely it'll take longer ta heal now than it would've."

"That is unfortunate," Teyla remarked, and Ronon snorted.

"Unfortunate that we get to listen to him whine about it longer," he remarked bluntly. "How's Sheppard?"

"Still holdin' his own," Carson answered, with a small nod. "I've been vera pleased with the colonel's progress, although we're also dealin' with some pain management there as well." The Scot's expression grew serious. "It's goin' ta be a fairly lengthy recovery, I'm afraid."

"What about his mind?" the Satedan pressed, and Carson could see the concern in his bearing, hear it in the gruff tone even if it wasn't immediately obvious to the casual observer. He was beginning to know the former Runner better and was learning how to 'read' Ronon's reactions, even if the tall fighter could still intimidate him on occasion. "When'll he start rememberin' things?"

"That I canna tell ye, laddie," Carson admitted, a frankly worried expression on his own face. "That sort o' recovery can be vera tricky indeed an' we'll just have ta wait an' see."

"More waiting," Ronon grumbled again, and slouched back down in the chair, although it was clear to see that he wasn't sure if he wanted to stay in it or not. He had the look of a coiled snake and Carson realized that a Ronon in this sort of mood was a Ronon better handled by Teyla.

"I'll let ye know if anythin' changes with either one o' them," the physician promised, and with that returned to his original purpose of bringing the Ancient scanner online for Rodney's shoulder.

Carson glanced back over his shoulder; Ronon was watching him, a scowl firmly fixed on his face. In spite of the trust the Satedan had earned, somehow Carson was rather grateful that he had things to do in the treatment areas of the Infirmary and he set about doing them. Once the scan on Rodney's shoulder been seen to and the physicist settled, Carson then turned his attention to his most serious patient.

Only to find that Ronon had abandoned the chair to stand silent vigil nearby the critical care suite, arms crossed, watching the sleeping lieutenant colonel within intently. He knew the Satedan was perfectly aware of his presence, so Carson simply came alongside and glanced at John briefly before turning his gaze to the man next to him.

"Sheppard's gonna come back," Ronon said simply, without as much as moving a muscle to acknowledge Beckett's presence. "He's gonna remember." There was no compromise, no taking the possibility that it might not happen; in the Satedan's world there was only one answer. The Scot had to admit he could appreciate the position, as other options weren't anything he particularly liked to contemplate either.

"Aye, that's the plan, anyway," Carson answered him after a moment, keeping his voice as calm and neutral as possible; the colonel's first recollections of the unfamiliar galaxy around him didn't need to include a riled up Satedan warrior. Of course, they didn't need to include the Wraith either but Carson knew eventually _certain_ unpleasant details would need to be revealed, assuming John's mind didn't recover those particular nightmares on its own.

Almost as if his patient was subconsciously responding to Carson's thoughts, John's forehead drew into a tight, distressed frown and the dark head turned restlessly, just once, upon the pillows on which he laid. That might have been the end of it, except for the desperate, quiet groaning that followed; the hand that batted defensively into thin air.

Ronon was moving even before Carson, to the physician's surprise and both men entered, reaching either side of the colonel's bed at nearly the same moment. Carson noted instantly that pulse and blood pressure were both elevated, and John's respiration was fast and shallow. Ronon was immediately fixed on the pale, bruised face and the soft, hitched moans. Quickly, but more gently than Carson would ever have believed it, the Satedan caught hold of John's weakly thrashing hand, and he leaned down to keep his voice low.

"Sheppard," Ronon intoned, quiet and steady. John's head tossed on the pillow, seeking escape from a nameless terror that only he could see, and Ronon placed his other hand reassuringly but carefully on the injured pilot's shoulder. "_Sheppard_," he repeated more firmly but still quiet. "You're okay, now...Can't hurt you anymore."

If Carson hadn't seen it himself, he might never have believed it. The Satedan's words seemed to register on some level with John; gradually the agitated lieutenant colonel calmed and the plaintive moaning tapered off. Pulse and breathing both slowed, and Carson watched, pleased, as John returned to deeper sleep.

"Nicely done, lad," Beckett murmured approvingly as after several long moments, the former Runner gently laid Sheppard's hand back down at his side. "I know it seems like he's sleepin' all the time," he continued in a near-whisper. "But trust me, Ronon; it's exactly what he needs right now."

"McKay, too," Dex finally admitted, despite his impatience. He was just as aware as Beckett, perhaps more so, how little rest the scientist had allowed himself during Sheppard's absence. As irritated as he could be with the man, he knew it was better for all of them that McKay was finally getting some real sleep. The Satedan hunched his shoulders; the first uneasy motion he'd made in Beckett's presence. "His shoulder gonna be okay?" he asked, a very slight nod toward the outer area where McKay lay.

"Oh, aye," Carson did his best to disguise his amusement at Ronon's ill-concealed concern for his team-mates. "It's like ye said, laddie, we'll just be quite aware how much it aches until it's properly mended." To his surprise, a grin briefly flashed across Ronon's face. Apparently the tall fighter understood that a quiet Rodney McKay meant something was very wrong. If Rodney was able to work his mouth, then all was well enough.

"Good," Ronon conceded. He finally turned dark eyes to Carson. "Can I stay?" he asked directly, and nodded toward the chair Teyla had earlier occupied near the colonel's bed. If the eyes were indeed the windows to the soul, as the saying went, Carson caught a brief glimpse of the Satedan's remaining guilt and worry over John's situation. The Scot smiled reassuringly.

"O' course, Ronon, ye can stay awhile," he consented, and taller man wasted no time in taking up station close by John's bed. Carson's next few moments were taken with his patient, checking monitors and IV, but as he did so, occasionally glanced in Ronon's direction. For a man who was self-admittedly no good at waiting, Ronon was becoming quite proficient at it. "All right, lad," Carson prefaced. "I'll be back ta look in on Colonel Sheppard, but if either o' ye need anythin', Anita's on duty, an' I'll just be out in the lab."

"Okay," Ronon answered, and Carson knew that was as much as he was going to get out of the Satedan. Leaving Ronon to his watchful observation of his team-leader, Carson left the colonel's bedside. On returning to his workstation, he found Dr. Hernandez waiting for him.

"Señor Beckett?"

"Ah, ye timin' could no' be more perfect. Over here, if ye please." The sooner Carson set the Puerto Rican to the task at hand, the sooner he could return to it, himself. Hopefully, the sooner he could treat his patient and prevent the colonel from further harm. Perhaps, even, ease the waiting for a certain Satedan.

* * *

Radek Zelenka was a man suddenly on a mission. The Czech weaved his way through the afternoon foot-traffic of personnel leaving the mess hall for their afternoon assignments, clutching his datapad to his chest to shield it as he headed for the command center once again. It would make his seventh or eighth trip from the labs to the control tower, but who was counting? He headed straight for Elizabeth's office, armed with data he had checked and rechecked before bringing it to her.

On arriving he found that he was not Dr. Weir's only company in the small office area and he hesitated to interrupt the conversation taking place within, but he shifted enough to catch the expedition leader's eye; this was important.

"Dr. Zelenka?" Elizabeth invited him in, and Radek sidestepped into her office area, giving Colonel Caldwell a wide berth as he did so; he was well aware the military man had very little patience for scientific types despite the necessity of his own science staff aboard the _Daedalus_. "What is it?" Elizabeth prompted, causing Radek's mouth to pop open seemingly of its own accord.

After a moment of imitating a fish pulled from water, the scientist blinked and responded, "There is a problem, Dr. Weir which I wish to discuss with you." He glanced at Caldwell briefly, uncertain if he should proceed.

"Colonel..." Weir more or less dismissed Caldwell with his rank, and he glared at Zelenka before inclining his head in acquiescence.

"Fine. We'll continue this later, Doctor," he promised brusquely and strode from Elizabeth's office. Radek couldn't help but notice Elizabeth's tension drain down a notch, and he winced as he realized he was about to wind it back up.

"What do you have, Radek?" Weir asked, all business, and Zelenka approached her with his datapad.

"We are experiencing series of minor power fluctuations, in several parts of the city," Radek prefaced as he shifted the computer around for Elizabeth's inspection. "Individually, they are nothing to be concerned with, really; they are all well within acceptable tolerances for the ZPM and the naquadah generators, but taken together..."

"They're not exactly random," Elizabeth surmised, and next to her, the Czech nodded. "Do you know what's causing them?"

"Not yet, no," Radek shook his head, and his already disheveled hair seemed to become more so with the motion. "And none have yet been noticeable beyond these readings, but as you can see here..." Radek tapped against the touchscreen and brought up more data.

"They're gaining in frequency and severity," Elizabeth frowned as she looked over the information displayed. "Eventually they _will_ be noticeable."

"If we do not pin down the source, it is a good possibility it could become a huge problem," Zelenka confirmed. Elizabeth nodded, glancing up from the datapad to the scientist.

"Have you been able to talk to Rodney about this?" she asked, although she was pretty sure she knew the answer to that one. Even if McKay _was_ awake, he was not likely to be pulled away from his mission to help John unless the situation was acute.

"It is my understanding from Dr. Beckett that will not be possible for some time," Radek replied with a slight shrug. "I have three of our people on it also, but I felt this needed your attention before I continue with more detailed diagnostic."

"It definitely has my attention," Elizabeth said as she looked over the data displayed. "Proceed with the diagnostics, Radek and keep me informed."

"Of course, Dr. Weir," Radek agreed without reservation. "I will be in touch the minute we find something." With that, the Czech collected his datapad and exited, leaving Elizabeth to sit down and wonder, _now what_...?

From her desk, Elizabeth could see there was a small knot of people waiting for Radek, presumably the people he wanted working on the problem with him. From the animated commands given in Czech, she could assume this was the hometown team. "Dobrá, lid, mít za ušima! My mít jeden otázka až k rozřešit a krátký čas až k rozřešit ono do. My dát na přetřes s diagnostický dále množství být středem, počátek jít s duchem času ZPM." _All right, people, be sharp! We have a problem to solve and little time to solve it in. We start with diagnostics on power centers, beginning with the ZPM_.

"A co člen určitý druhotný běžet štafetu dle člen určitý naquadah generátor? JÁ cenit ono více pravděpodobný aby..." _What about the secondary relays from the naquadah generators? I think it more probable that_...

"Čekat, čekat, ne. Novotný, Svobodová , vyjít najevo nejdříve generátor postavení. Šek podprogram, a druhotný osoustavy. Kadlek, Korouhvička, člen určitý týž jít s duchem času druhý generátor. Dvořák, nález Nina Kosar a stát se advokátem tercie generátor postavení. Duchovní tebe ar s mne; my jsme kolace člen určitý ZPM." _Wait, wait, no. Novotny, Svobodova, take the first generator station. Check subroutines, and secondary systems. Kadlek, Korouhvička, the same with the second generator. Dvořák, find Nina Kosar and go to the third generator station. Duchovny, you are with me; we're checking the ZPM_.

Assignments given, Radek's work groups scattered and Radek headed for the ZPM. They had to find the source of the problem before it escalated into something that was more than a just a minor anomaly. Before it turned into something for which they would have no choice but to wake Rodney.

So intent was the Czech on reaching his destination that he was completely startled when a hand landed on his shoulder and he sucked in a sharp breath. Radek looked up to see Steven Caldwell keeping pace with him and behind his glasses, the scientist blinked in surprise. "Colonel...Caldwell..." he greeted uncertainly, wondering just what the military man wanted with him. "What can I do for you?"

Caldwell's lips were set in a tight, thin line, and he waited a beat before answering the shorter man. "You can stay out of my way, Doctor," he said flatly. "Understand this: the SGC has granted me some latitude in this situation. It'd be better for you...better for everybody concerned...if you don't obstruct my efforts."

More blinking from Radek was followed by a frown. "I thought you were investigating Colonel Sheppard's kidnapping," he blustered a bit. "How do you suppose that I am in your way?" It was a fair question, a perfectly fair question, Radek thought. The glare he received from Caldwell seemed to indicate the other man thought differently.

"Interrupting discussions pertinent to the investigation, for one thing," Caldwell's displeasure at having been practically ordered from Elizabeth's office was apparent. "Withholding information regarding the status of this outpost in the wake of...recent events isn't exactly helpful, either, Doctor. If there are potential security breaches, I want to know about it, is that clear?"

"Perfectly," Zelenka replied, but did not volunteer any further information; he fairly glared at the man who was keeping him from important work. "I'm sure that if Dr. Weir considers routine systems check a security risk, she will inform both of us. Now, please, Colonel, if you do not mind, there is work for me to do."

The colonel's eyes narrowed briefly; for a little geek, the man had some backbone.

"Very well, but if not...and something comes of it, I'm holding you responsible," he stabbed a forefinger toward the scientist's chest, and strode off in another direction, completely missing the relieved sigh left in his wake.

"Who died and made him a god?" Duchovny asked, perplexed. He had wisely hung back from the minor confrontation, and he looked at Zelenka curiously. "What does he think, shoving you around? We are not military."

Radek simply waved it off; they had other things to think about now. "It's nothing to worry about; come on, we have much to do." The pair continued on their way, and Duchovny suddenly grinned.

"It is small man making up for small things," he intimated, and Radek shook his head, laughing.

"Tebe blbec!" _You idiot_! "Can we get some work done, now?" Still, as they continued on to the area housing the ZPM, Zelenka couldn't help but think, _Have to remember that one to tell McKay later_.

* * *

The Atlantis mess hall was still fairly busy at this hour, although the regular lunchtime rush of military personnel and civilian staff had slowed quite a bit. It was a little later than Marcus Lorne generally liked to show up to eat lunch himself, but he was a man under orders. Despite what he might think about Steven Caldwell personally, the man was a superior officer and Marcus was duty-bound; but that didn't mean he was going into this blind. The Marine major wasn't unaware of the colonel's personal ambitions; the swiftness with which Caldwell had settled into Colonel Sheppard's duties during the retrovirus incident had made that abundantly clear.

What Caldwell hadn't counted on, Marcus figured, was the intense loyalty the military contingent in Atlantis had developed for their commanding officer. Colonel Sheppard had proved himself here with his men, and whatever else Caldwell was, he _wasn't_ John Sheppard.

The minute changes had shown up in the pipeline, Lorne hadn't been shy about approaching Dr. Weir with it, with the support of nearly every member of the military force stationed in the city. He'd been gratified by the fact that it hadn't taken Elizabeth Weir very long at all to assert her authority in the situation. Despite how very close they had come to losing Sheppard and gaining Caldwell as their new C.O., Lorne would've done the same thing over again given the same set of circumstances, no question.

Lorne swept the room in a practiced gaze but saw no sign of the colonel as yet, so proceeded to get his lunch and carry his tray to a table on the far side of the hall. Settling down in the corner, he started in on the sandwich he'd chosen; if Caldwell was that intent on speaking with him, he was certain the colonel would find him.

He didn't have long to wait; half a sandwich later and Marcus looked up to see Colonel Caldwell approaching him with a tray of his own. The major did his best to hide a grimace behind another bite of his sandwich, and fortunately Caldwell either didn't notice or was far too thick-skinned to care; _Daedalus'_ commander simply sat down across from Lorne.

"Good afternoon, Sir," Lorne finally greeted, and Caldwell glanced up from dousing pepper over his food.

"Major," Caldwell said shortly, and Marcus resisted the impulse to frown; something had annoyed Caldwell and set the man on edge, and that would make this discussion infinitely less pleasant, he was sure. He simply settled for taking another bite of his sandwich; whatever Caldwell wished to discuss could be brought up at the colonel's good pleasure.

They ate in rather non-companionable silence for several minutes before Caldwell spoke up.

"I've studied the available information and mission reports on the Istura situation," the colonel said at last, glancing at Lorne briefly before turning his attention to the next forkful of his lunch. "It seems very apparent to me that Colonel Sheppard and Dr. Weir initially disagreed when it came to carrying out further negotiations with these people," Caldwell stated.

"I don't know about that, Sir," Lorne replied evasively. "I wasn't part of the briefing regarding Istura; my team was offworld."

"Be that as it may," Caldwell replied swiftly, looking at the major frankly, "I know you've seen this material, along with anything else that has been submitted regarding the subsequent search for Colonel Sheppard." His tone was somewhat frosty. "Don't even think about playing games with me, Major," he warned. "As Sheppard's second in command, you know what's going on around here, and I expect you to be forthcoming."

"Yes, sir!" Lorne replied, a quiet edge to his voice that just bordered on insubordination if Caldwell chose to take it that way, but he stiffened in his chair, essentially coming to attention. Caldwell waved it off.

"Dr. Weir and Colonel Sheppard have this whole trust and loyalty thing going on here, and that's a fine thing, but if Weir was negligent in any way by sending her premiere team into an unnecessary, dangerous situation that results in the compromise of this base of operation..." Caldwell let it hang in the air while he brought another forkful of his lunch level with his mouth. "As you were saying, Major?" he prompted, before continuing to eat.

"It's true that they butted heads initially on the idea of going back," Lorne finally answered reluctantly, feeling as if he'd been backed to the wall. "Dr. Weir was reluctant about it when Ronon brought back one of those bounty pictures the Genii circulated to corner gene carriers. She was worried about somebody still trying to make good on the offer. Colonel Sheppard believed the gains outweighed the risks in this situation; any ally we can gain in the fight against the Wraith is a good one, sir. He made the point that good relations with the Isturans could potentially net us another Alpha site if the worst should happen, and our list of Alpha sites is pretty thin right now."

"I see," Caldwell replied, stabbing another bite with the fork, "So above her own concerns and objections for the safety of Atlantis' military command, Weir allowed herself to be swayed by the _possible_ gain of an evacuation site?"

"Permission to speak freely?" the major requested, and the colonel across from him simply nodded. Lorne drew in a deep breath, knowing he was about to get the man's full and undivided attention.

"Sir, I _know_ you have a bone to pick with Dr. Weir, and from scuttlebutt I bet I could tell you better than you can tell me what it's all about," Lorne replied evenly, the remnants of his sandwich forgotten. "With all due respect, Colonel Caldwell, I'll answer your questions and I'll cooperate with your investigation because that's what Dr. Weir ordered me to do, but if I think for one minute what _you're_ doing endangers this base of operation, or the people in it, all bets are off the table. Sir."

Caldwell fairly bristled, and if his expression had been sour before, Marcus reflected, it was positively baleful now, the colonel's displeasure clearly telegraphed in his features.

"Is that a threat, Major?" he inquired coldly, spearing Lorne with a steely look.

"No, sir," Marcus answered. Rising smoothly, he gathered up his tray, his eyes never leaving Caldwell's. "Just the way it is. If you don't mind, Colonel, I'm still on duty and I'd like to get back to it."

"We'll talk again, Major," Caldwell promised, and was slightly surprised when Lorne nodded affirmatively.

"Yes, sir, I expect we will, sir." With that, Marcus took his leave, all but fuming as he did so. He was aware, just like everyone else on this expedition, that Elizabeth Weir was only human and certainly not perfect. However, he'd be hung by his thumbs before he'd let Caldwell maneuver him into betraying her for whatever ambitions the commanding officer of the _Daedalus_ harbored.

Just the way it was.

* * *

John recognized the familiar drumbeat in his head before he even bothered to open his eyes, and it was just bright through the Infirmary to make him think twice about keeping them open, so he settled on a slight squint as he blinked himself back to wakefulness. The lights dimmed around him, and he blinked again, a puzzled expression settling into his features.

"That better?" a gruff voice asked from his right and John inhaled sharply, startled, and winced heavily at the protest his ribs gave the unexpected motion. "Sorry, Sheppard," John heard next, and the speaker came into his field of vision. A wary curiosity settled over him as he looked over the tall, muscled man that folded himself into the nearby chair.

_I don't think I wanna know how much he can press_, John thought briefly as he took in the man's serious, brooding air and barely restrained power; the guy was like a coiled spring even as he lounged back in the chair and observed him with dark, watchful eyes. "_Uh, yeah_..." he acknowledged the whole turning the lights down thing. "_Thanks...for fixing the lights_."

For his own part, Ronon had stayed perhaps longer than he'd intended, watching over the first person he'd come to trust in a very long time. A person, who he could tell just by looking, didn't know him anymore. He resisted the urge to sigh impatiently and simply settled for clenching his right hand into a tight fist.

"Not a problem," the Satedan rumbled the phrase he had picked up from Sheppard and some of the others. "You okay?" he asked, frowning as he noted a sudden alert tension in the lieutenant colonel's bearing.

"_I do something...to piss you off?_" Sheppard wanted to know, his right hand motioning vaguely to the big fist resting on Ronon's knee. Dark eyebrows shot upward in a surprised look; Ronon made the conscious decision to loosen his fingers and place his hand palm-down on his knee. The lieutenant colonel shrugged very slightly. "_Y' just look like...somebody I don't wanna piss off_." A faint half-smile appeared on the pale face. "_Ever_." Ronon actually grinned and shook his head slightly; realizing that despite the memory loss, it was still Sheppard in there, it was still _him_. "_What's so funny_?"

"You," Ronon answered bluntly, but he shrugged lazily. "You're gonna be okay," he pronounced.

"_What, are you some...sort of fortune-teller?_" John asked as he finally relaxed in the other man's presence. "_'Cause you...don't look like any kind...of doctor I've ever seen_." That elicited a snort from his companion, and John had to marvel a little at the complete change of demeanor in the guy despite the fact that he didn't seem overly communicative.

"Funny, Sheppard," Ronon replied, barely avoiding the urge to comment that physicians didn't do much fighting against the Wraith. Weir had been very specific about that sort of thing.

"_So_..." Sheppard said, openly curious now. "_You...part of this...whole thing, too?_" He made a small motion indicating everything around them. "_Guessing...you're another...hole in my head_." There was no mistaking the undercurrent of frustration in the colonel's voice despite its tired, breathy quality thanks to the fractured ribs. Ronon almost winced in sympathy; he'd had enough broken ribs in his life to remember how much effort breathing and talking seemed to take on.

"Yeah," he said, trying to disguise his disappointment that his presence hadn't somehow jogged Sheppard's memory. "Ronon Dex," he introduced himself simply. "I'm part of your team."

"_So you _are_...military_," John mused with a slight frown, although he couldn't imagine anybody that tall fitting into the cockpit of any fighter he'd ever seen. "_Marine?_"

"Sorta," Dex responded with a bit of a grin. "Military enough to drop your skinny butt." It was another phrase he'd picked up along the way, and he gestured toward the outer Infirmary area. "You owe me a practice in the gym when you're better." That was enough to raise Sheppard's eyebrows in surprise, and he continued, "Got a little fried trying to break you out; you owe me."

"_Break me...out?_" John asked; his voice underpinned with a desperate need to _know_ something. "_From where? What...what happened to me?_" Hazel eyes held hope that maybe now he'd start getting some answers. Beckett had been evasive at best, keeping things to his condition and treatment, and as yet, Weir had yet to return and speak with him. He didn't know how long he'd been sleeping, but it seemed that by now _someone_ should have told him _something_. There was hesitation on the other man's part. "_Ronon...Ronon, right? Ronon...tell me_."

"Maybe _we_ should talk about that," Elizabeth Weir's voice interrupted as she came into the critical care suite and drifted toward the foot of John's bed. John didn't miss the look of relief that just briefly crossed Ronon's face; it was fast and if he'd blinked he wouldn't have seen it. But the tall man rose smoothly from the chair he'd been sitting in, offering it to Elizabeth, and she smiled. "Thank you, Ronon."

"Be back later, Sheppard," Dex promised with a short nod, and he headed out of the Infirmary.

"_Yes...we should talk...about it_," John proclaimed as strongly as he could, which wasn't very strong at all given he had to breathe carefully around every few words.

Elizabeth rubbed her palms together briefly in a nervous gesture, and drew in a slow breath. "I imagine you have quite a few questions..." she prefaced, meeting hazel eyes with an expression of firm resolve.

"_Yeah, I do_," John cautiously shifted, using his good hand but trying to be mindful of the IV stuck in the back of it. He winced as the IV pulled and his ribs made known in detail just how bad an idea that was. Elizabeth moved swiftly from the foot of the bed to his side, getting her arm underneath his and providing a bit of leverage.

"Is that all right?" she asked as she rearranged the pillows at John's back to prop him up as comfortably as possible. John sagged back into them almost immediately, but was pleased to be a little more eye to eye with Elizabeth as she settled into the chair Ronon had vacated.

"_Thanks,_" he acknowledged, taking a moment to simply breathe and let the ache die down in his side, but it wasn't long before his eyes were pinned on his visitor again. "_How 'bout...we start...at the beginning?_" he suggested, swallowing tightly. "_Where am I and what...happened to me...for starters?_"

Elizabeth watched him closely, trying to gauge how ready he was to hear any of this, but tried to keep Kate Heightmeyer's suggestions in mind. "This Infirmary is part of the operations center for a military and scientific...expedition," she chose her words carefully. "That expedition is Atlantis," she answered simply, without detail, waiting to see if even the mention of the city would jar any memories loose.

"_Atlantis..._" John murmured thoughtfully, looking away with a frown of concentration on his pale face. Elizabeth unconsciously leaned forward, hope lighting her eyes.

"Does that sound familiar to you, John?" she asked softly, and after a moment the lieutenant colonel looked back to her blankly, shaking his head just a little. Elizabeth clamped down on the disappointment she felt well up, schooling her expression to be encouraging. "You've been the head of military operations here, as I mentioned to you before," she continued cautiously. "You and your team were on...assignment when you were separated and taken by force."

John swallowed tightly, an anxious glimmer in the hazel eyes. "_My people?_" he wanted to know immediately, and Elizabeth was taken by surprise, although she didn't know why. It was such a normal response from the colonel to think of the others' well-being before his own in such situations. After a moment, she nodded.

"They're all fine, John," she reassured, impulsively reaching out to curl her hand around his forearm, careful of the IV line. "Carson tells me you've already seen them all, actually. Ronon, Teyla, and Rodney are the members of your team."

"_Rodney?_" John was pulled a little off-track by that one; his eyebrows shot upward. "_The guy with the sling?_" A mixture of amusement and open curiosity spread across his face, and had it been physically possible, he might've folded his arms across his chest in a gesture of disbelief. Elizabeth actually smiled, and she nodded.

"You asked him yourself," she answered, a note of mirth in her own voice before she added, "In the past year and a half, you've all become a very tight team."

John sobered as well, giving that some thought. There it was again, that missing chunk of his life staring him in the face, reflected in the pair of worried eyes that watched him. He absently picked at the blanket with his good hand, ignoring the slight tug it produced on the IV in the back of it, and Elizabeth pulled her own hand back, lacing her fingers in her lap.

"_What...kind of assignment?_" he asked, his brows knitting together in a thoughtful frown. "_Beckett said...we're at sea_."

"He did?" Elizabeth blinked; she hadn't expected Carson, of all people, to be giving up information prematurely. John nodded, but his frown deepened as he watched her reaction.

"_I thought...this joint venture...of yours might be with...the Navy or...or something_," he said cautiously, in hope of unearthing more information about a past that was currently beyond his reach. She was playing him with kid gloves and he knew it, but the _why_ was just as big a mystery.

"Not quite," Elizabeth replied, a half smile touching her face briefly before she continued. "Most of the men under your command are Marines, actually; some Air Force, a few special forces, but mostly Marines. And we are at sea...although we're not too far from land." That also was true; whether it be the roughly half-hour trip to the mainland, or stepping foot through the Stargate, although those details would have to wait. It was enough to allow John to extrapolate that his team's "assignment" had taken place elsewhere than their home base.

"_And...I was taken_," John stated, and Elizabeth glanced down, unable to hold the pained, searching hazel gaze any longer. Despite her best efforts, her hands trembled slightly in her lap.

"Yes," she said simply, and at last she looked up at him. "Do you remember anything about your capture, John?"

Sheppard inhaled quickly, and swallowed. He felt abruptly vulnerable, and realized that, irrational as it was, he wasn't ready for the conversation to take that particular turn just yet. The IV hand moved over to rub absently along his left arm above the cast and it was his turn to look away as he considered Weir's question. His eyes narrowed slightly as he tried to dredge up some sort of recollection. Eventually he shook his head a little, looking back at her with troubled eyes.

"_No_," John murmured, and in that moment he could see pity in her eyes, alongside the worry, and he steeled himself against it. He glared back, irritated. "_Do you...know who...or...why?_" he demanded, although his voice couldn't quite back up the hardness in his eyes. It was singularly unsatisfying, however when Elizabeth shook her head.

"I'm afraid we don't know the answer to either of those questions," she admitted unhappily, but he could tell she wasn't holding back on this one. "At least, not yet," Elizabeth amended. "We're working on it." She watched as the dark head fell back against the pillows, a soft sigh.

"_What aren't...you telling...me?_" Sheppard wanted to know, making his voice as demanding as he could under the circumstances; his eyes had to make up the difference with another sharp look. "_What...don't you want me...to know?_" He had to admit to a small sense of accomplishment when Weir swallowed tightly and he knew he'd hit a nerve.

"This expedition, Atlantis, is very...important, John," Elizabeth finally, reluctantly, answered. "Most of it is highly classified." She paused, then; she hadn't wanted to go there as yet but he was forcing her hand and she would not reveal more until Kate determined he should hear it.

Realization dawned on John at the same moment, and his expression hardened into one of anger—still fairly impressive given his current pallor and stark bruises. "_You think they broke me_, _don't you_?" he accused in a breathless rush, and this time the waver in his voice had little to do with the broken ribs.

"John, what I think or anyone else thinks matters very little right now; what _does_ matter is your safety and the safety of this base," Elizabeth answered, perhaps a little stronger than she'd intended, but her voice softened as she continued, "We just want you to get well, John. You've been missed here more than you know."

"_Colonel_," John rasped; his voice taut and his eyes cold hazel fire. "_According...to you, Dr. Weir_."

This wasn't a reaction Kate had particularly briefed her on, and Elizabeth swallowed hard, her hands gripped tightly in her lap. She glanced aside briefly before meeting his gaze evenly.

"All right, _Colonel_," she replied. "I'll give you that in the past year and a half, I've come to respect you as an intelligent, resourceful, _strong_ military commander. You've become an integral part of our operations here, and we need you. But you would hold me to account if I didn't act in accordance to what information I _do_ have in order to protect this base and the people under your command."

John nearly flinched; he wasn't sure if he'd expected that kind of steel in her tone or not, but it was effective. He reached up to rub his eyes, wincing a little as he forgot how tender his right eye and cheekbone still were. "_You're right_," he admitted simply, quietly. When he looked up, however, he flashed a cautious—almost nervous—smile. "_I just...I don't do...that not in control...thing...very well_."

Elizabeth allowed a smile of her own, and reached over to again place her hand comfortingly on his arm.

"It's nice to know," she said lightly, "that some things never change." John resisted the urge to snort at that; it would only add to the headache still thumping away behind his eyes. Elizabeth rose from the chair and squeezed his forearm gently, mindful of the IV line. "Believe me, John; we all want the same thing here. Trust me when I tell you we're going to do everything we can to help you to recover what you've lost." She was asking for his trust. John looked up at her, eyes shadowed in uncertainty, but after a moment he simply nodded.

"_Okay_."

John closed his eyes with a soft, careful sigh. Elizabeth's expression grew thoughtful as she gazed down on him, and she released his arm. "Get some rest," she encouraged. "Tomorrow I'd like you to talk with someone; her name is Kate Heightmeyer."

"_Resident shrink?_" Sheppard queried without opening his eyes, and so therefore missed the hopeful flash in Weir's eyes.

"Do you remember Kate?" Elizabeth asked hesitantly, wondering why of all things John would recall Kate before anyone else; the colonel steadfastly avoided the counselor most days and flatly refused her services. A single hazel eye looked up at her then.

"_No_," he answered frankly, and Elizabeth frowned briefly. "_with a...name like...'Heightmeyer'...c'mon gimme...a break_."

"I'd like you to talk to her, John. I realize you're not overly fond of the idea, but we should use every available resource to help you regain your memory. Give her a chance," Weir's tone was somewhere between asking and ordering, a firmness leaning toward the latter that as an Air Force officer, Sheppard was well familiar. Letting his left eye drift closed so that both were shut once more, he exhaled wearily.

"_Maybe_," he answered simply; it was as close as he'd come to agreeing outright to listening to the inevitable psychobabble that'd be thrown at him.

"Okay," Elizabeth conceded, knowing that was likely the most positive response she'd get out of him regarding a conversation with the counselor. She stood there a moment, silently, reluctant to leave. John's left eye cracked open again, a cross between annoyance and puzzlement in his features.

"_Somethin' else?_" he mumbled, and she pulled herself together, offered a slight, anxious smile.

"No," Elizabeth hastened to reassure him. "It's just... Well, when you were missing..." She drew in a slow, deliberate breath. "We were afraid we'd lost you for good, John," Elizabeth admitted at last, her right hand coming away from his forearm to clasp her left wrist. "I know we've all been hovering a bit, but it's a little like a miracle to have you back."

"_'S okay,_" John's voice was softer, a little more slurred and Elizabeth knew it was time to go; he wouldn't last much longer before sleep claimed him again. "_I don' mind...'s kinda nice_." He drifted off in short order, and Elizabeth started to leave, but paused at the foot of the bed, watching as he slept.

A soft smile touched her lips as she stood there, grateful beyond expression. Carson would eventually have him back on his feet, and as to the rest...she'd told Teyla once, when the expedition had barely begun to settle, that she couldn't afford to have doubts. The Athosian had countered saying she simply couldn't let them show, and Elizabeth knew that now, more than ever, she had to live by that.

She didn't know how long she'd been standing there, watching John, the soft sound of his breathing and the muted beeping of the cardiac monitor her only company before a low groan pulled her from her thoughts and refocused her attention on the thin, battered lieutenant colonel. "John?" she intoned quietly as she again came around to his side. John's only response was another distressed sound, his brows pushing together into a tense frown, and the dark head tossing restlessly on the pillow. Elizabeth reached down, placing her hand gently against his shoulder. "John, it's me, Elizabeth."

Elizabeth's head jerked up sharply as the lights abruptly flickered, brightened, and then dropped to the lower setting Ronon had chosen earlier. "What the..." She reached up to activate her earpiece. "Zelenka, this is Weir. What's going on?" Under her other hand, she felt John shudder and instinctively she rubbed her hand along his upper arm.

"_I don't know,_" the Czech's heavily accented voice sounded in her ear, a note of frustration clearly present in his tone. "_Power distribution is haywire; some kind of overload, perhaps. I am still attempting to pin down source of the problem_."

"Let me know what you find," Elizabeth ordered. "I'll be back in my office in a few minutes; Weir out." Beneath her hand, she felt John shivering uncontrollably and he had her full attention once more. "John, you're all right, it's all right," she murmured soothingly, trying once again to stir him from his troubled dreams. "You're safe in Atlantis." Her heart jumped into her throat as hazel eyes abruptly snapped open; whatever she'd been expecting, it wasn't the way John now stared without seeing her, nor how he arched his head back into the pillow with a terrifying, choked cry of pain.

As suddenly as he'd begun, Sheppard stopped; restless motion and rough voice ceasing as his eyes rolled back in his head and he sagged into unconsciousness.

In the same breath, Atlantis plunged into darkness.


	4. Chapter 4

FOUR

Backup lighting came up in various portions of the city, but in a somewhat uneven fashion, not at all like the emergency management plan McKay had put into place practically the moment Atlantis had a working ZPM.

"_Zed_ PM," Radek muttered to himself with a slight snort. There were times that Rodney could be so..._Canadian_. Behind him there was some shuffling, a muffled _thud_ followed by not-so-muffled cursing in Czech.

"What?" Duchovny demanded, somewhat disgruntled and trying to find his way forward.

"Come on, Anton. Get the flashlight and come over here, please," Radek replied, trying to keep the tension out of his own voice. They had run several different diagnostic scenarios and had been in the middle of another when the power had failed so completely it was as if a giant hand had reached out and unplugged the entire city, so to speak. Prior to the power loss, there had been no indication of difficulty with the ZPM; everything had checked out. Primary and secondary systems had been, as far as the Czech could see, operating at optimal levels.

"Tell me where I'm going, and we'll see about the flashlight," the other man grumbled.

Fortunately the datapad's batteries had been fresh when he started the system checks and there was still a pale glow coming from the screen. Radek scooped it up carefully and turned it toward the sounds behind him. In the faint light he could make out Duchovny sitting on the floor. "What are you doing down there?"

"Sitting," the other man shot back, and Zelenka noticed that his fellow scientist was not only on the floor, but rubbing gingerly at his left ankle. At his worried look, Duchovny continued, "I tripped against something...that I think," Duchovny pointed at a small crate, "and twisted it." He gestured to the ankle.

"Do you think you can stand?" Radek propped the datapad up in such a manner as to let the faint glow continue to illuminate the corner Anton occupied, and hurried to help him up. "Easy," he cautioned as he got an arm around the other man. After a moment of shifting and pulling, Radek got him to his feet. Duchovny balanced on his good foot and gingerly attempted a little weight on the other. The sharp hissing intake of breath was enough to tell Radek that they were going to need help. "Over here, sit down," Radek motioned to the offending crate and helped Duchovny limp over and settle onto it.

"What was that?" Anton demanded, right forefinger making a circular motion to indicate the power shutoff. "Everything was testing fine."

"I don't know," Zelenka replied, perhaps a little more snappishly than he'd intended. "If I did, we wouldn't need the flashlight." Kneeling, he pulled one of the packs closer, rummaging around through its contents until he produced the flashlight in question and flicked it on. The beam pierced through the gloom, and Zelenka panned it around the area as an involuntary shiver ran through him. There were still days that some of the more remote parts of the city gave him "the creeps," as Colonel Sheppard would put it and while the chamber that housed the ZPM wasn't quite _remote_, in the dark it could still be a little forbidding even after all this time.

Getting up, the Czech returned to the datapad. Pulling it a little closer with his free hand, he ran his fingers along the touchscreen, entering several commands. A string of startled, puzzled Czech left his mouth and he called up more data, fingers moving nimbly.

"What?" Duchovny frowned and peered at his companion when no response was immediately forthcoming. "Radek, what is it?"

"I...I'm not sure," Radek admitted, pausing long enough to shove his glasses up on the bridge of his nose in a nervous gesture. "These command routines are..." he trailed off and laid the flashlight down on the console. Both hands moved along the touchscreen now, calling up several subsets of information. "The Ancient systems connected to the ZPM are not executing commands from this interface."

"Why?" Duchovny tilted his head a bit, thinking.

"_Weir to Zelenka_," Elizabeth's voice sounded in Radek's ear before he could answer Anton and he automatically reached up to activate his earpiece. "_Radek, what's going on? If we lose primary power, we're extremely vulnerable. If it becomes necessary, we can't maintain the cloak on emergency levels alone_."

"I know! I wish I could tell you," Radek responded honestly. "We have run into a problem down here; I'm heading to control tower to try to fix it from there. Anton turned his ankle; if Carson could send someone to the ZPM station that would be helpful."

"_Help's on its way,_" Weir promised after a moment's pause. "_I'll meet you in the control center_."

"All right, Zelenka out," Radek responded, quickly gathering up the datapad and disconnecting it. He turned to his fellow scientist, who looked a little pale in the beam cast by the flashlight. "Are you all right down here for a few minutes? It won't take them long to come."

Anton waved his hand dismissively. "Go ahead. This," he motioned around them to indicate the current crisis, "is bigger trouble than I am."

Radek resisted the urge to chuckle, but he did grin. Duchovny's English was rapidly improving the longer he was here, but occasionally he still mixed metaphors or verb tenses, or as in this case, expressed something with a double meaning that he did not intend.

"All right; I check in with you later, Dr. Trouble," Radek pronounced as he passed the other scientist by to enter the passage beyond. "Try not to _make_ any trouble while you wait, hm?" Radek headed back toward the nearest transporter; he smirked and did his best to ignore the disgruntled grumbling in Czech behind him.

Halfway there, the emergency lights flickered as well but just when Zelenka expected them to fail as well, full power returned and flooded the hallway with light. Not just light, but a brightness that seemed to exceed normal standards and the Czech stopped in his tracks, blinking furiously to keep his eyes from watering. He pulled off his glasses, reaching up with his other hand to rub his eyes but when he opened them again, it was as if none of it had ever happened.

Radek looked around the immediate area for a few moments, finding it was the same in the adjoining corridors; all was well, it seemed. Frowning slightly he reached up and tapped his earpiece. "Zelenka to Dr. Weir," he called and waited for her response. "I will be with you soon; there is something I want to see here." Having secured Elizabeth's permission, the scientist turned back the way he'd come, hurrying back to the ZPM station.

"I thought you were going back?" Duchovny looked up as Zelenka returned at a swift pace.

"It changed my mind," Radek replied, motioning briefly to indicate the return of power. "When the lights came up I wanted to check the interface one more time." He shrugged slightly and stepped up to the console he'd abandoned just minutes ago and reconnected his datapad. Tapping in a few commands, he watched as a series of diagnostic information scrolled across the screen. Muttering in Czech followed soon after.

"What is it?" Anton asked, his frown mirroring Zelenka's expression. "What happened?"

"I'm not sure, but the interface is working again, almost as if there never was a problem," Radek replied, confusion clearly in his tone. "Power levels are approaching normal again." He typed another string of commands and skimmed the information that produced. "It makes no sense."

Sighing softly, the Czech pushed his glasses up on his nose and glanced around as if the answers might materialize in midair; it wouldn't be the first time a hologram or display had appeared unexpectedly with an explanation or instruction. Despite the wishful thinking, there was no response from Atlantis and Zelenka looked at Duchovny in puzzled disappointment.

"I suppose we have no choice," Anton grumbled. "We'll have to get McKay on this."

"No," Radek said firmly, shaking his head to emphasize the point. "Not yet; we only started to investigate and we have not yet reached the place of admitting defeat." Before Anton could make any observation about what "admitting defeat" to Rodney McKay might entail, Radek continued earnestly, "We need to give McKay time to help Colonel Sheppard." The medical technicians Dr. Beckett had dispatched arrived with a wheelchair and a medkit, and Radek closed up the laptop as they saw to the other scientist. "_Now_ I am going back. You can join me when they finish with you." With that, and a spate of frustrated Czech, Zelenka was off once again for the control center, taking the time in his muttering to inform Elizabeth that he was once again on his way.

Atlantis, it seemed, was offering no answers.

* * *

He woke to total darkness. Well, all right, not _total_ darkness; a muted sort of glow came from somewhere and he blinked, trying to focus.

"_Mom?_" Rodney whispered cautiously, the remnants of his dream seeming to follow him into reality and for a brief moment he had trouble distinguishing one from the other. In the dim lighting a figure came into his field of vision; he reached up with his left hand to rub tiredly at his eyes before trying to pick out the face of his mother against the gloom. "_Why'sit dark?_" The 'why is it' was lost to light slurring and he realized how heavy his arm felt as he let it drop back to the bed beneath him.

"McKay," the gruff voice that answered him snapped Rodney firmly back to the present and he sluggishly tried to sit up.

"So'body shoulda woke m' up sooner," he grumbled as hands reached to steady him, taking care he noted, not to jostle his injured shoulder. "I've got importan' things t' do, y'know."

"Beckett made you sleep," Ronon's succinct explanation was enough to tell Rodney that one, he'd slept the entire day away and two; they'd _tried_ to wake him sooner without success. He muttered a quiet curse that came out drunken-sounding. "Here." A cup was handed to him and somehow Rodney managed to drink from it without spilling it on himself. The water was more than welcome, and seemed to shake away a little of the lethargy.

"Still...I can't work if I'm comatose can I?" Rodney snapped now, a little more himself. He lowered the cup, and blinked twice as he abruptly realized that it wasn't the middle of the night as he'd originally assumed. "What happened?" he demanded, snapping his attention back to Ronon. "What's with the emergency lights?"

"Some kind of power problem," Ronon explained with a shrug and slightly raised eyebrows, which only prompted some eye-rolling from the physicist.

"_Thank_ you, Captain Obvious," Rodney handed over the cup and pushed himself up from the bed. He wobbled momentarily, the brief assault of dizziness courtesy of leftover medication and moving too quickly. Ronon gathered up a large fistful of shirt, keeping Rodney on his feet until the moment passed.

"Welcome," the Satedan watched him, unfazed, as he regained his balance. "Zelenka's working on it," Dex finally offered a little more information and nodded to indicate the low-level lighting. "Haven't been down long; hour, maybe."

Rodney's brow furrowed heavily in concentration, his mind already considering multiple possibilities. He reached up and realized he didn't have an earpiece. Pointing at both their ears in quick succession, Rodney demanded the Satedan's radio, snapping his fingers impatiently while the little device was handed over. Fumbling awkwardly until it was pressed into place, Rodney had a few seconds' debate in his head who he should contact first; Elizabeth or Radek. Before he could speak, the lights came up with an intensity that made even Ronon squint sharply, before falling back to a tolerable level. Rodney reached for eyes that filled reflexively.

"What the hell was _that?_" he exclaimed, wiping his eyes and blinking away after-images that seemed imprinted on his eyelids.

"Yeah, that was kinda bright," Ronon agreed, although the Satedan didn't seem to be overly troubled by it. Rodney continued to blink and squint, good hand fluttering near his face.

"You _think_? Where's Beckett? We could be in for retinal damage, significantly impaired vision..."

"I can see just fine," Ronon declared, and again grabbed a fistful of Rodney's shirt, this time to turn him around to face Carson, who was approaching at the scientist's rather vocal complaint. "And so can you, McKay."

"No offense, but I'd rather let Carson determine if I'm going blind or not," Rodney protested. In so doing, he completely missed the near-bored look Ronon shot over his head at Carson.

"Which I canna do with ye hand in the way," Beckett said rather matter-of-factly. "Back in the bed with ye now," he motioned toward the bed McKay had just vacated; the scientist squinting at it warily.

"No," Rodney finally declared, blinking back lingering moisture and reaching up to rub his eyes. "You can't knock me out again; I have to help Sheppard and it's pretty clear to me that I'm going to have to bail out Zelenka, too so just...just let me up." He forced away the squint, blinked twice, and allowed his eyes to adjust to the current—which was to say, normal—light levels. "Good. Where's my computer and hey...where's Hernandez? Has he gotten any further with the..."

The lights lowered again, but didn't power off completely. Rodney reached for his borrowed earpiece again, but was again distracted from his intention when one of Carson's nurses approached them. "Doctor Beckett?" she prefaced, gathering all three men's attentions. "The colonel's regaining consciousness." Rodney gaped, all thought of berating Radek for dropping the ball in his absence forgotten.

"All right, love; I'm comin'," Beckett acknowledged and with a quick glance to the other two, hurried back the way he'd come.

"Sheppard?" Rodney squawked as he followed after the physician; there was almost no other way to describe his tone, driven by tension. "When did he _lose_ consciousness?"

"Happened while you were asleep," Ronon volunteered helpfully; he could appreciate the scientist's concern. "'Bout the same time as the lights went out...an hour ago?"

"No' quite," Carson answered as they approached the critical care area. "Although 'twas goin' on ta forty minutes; I was beginnin' ta be a wee bit nervous." He reached John's side and placed his hand on his patient's shoulder, noting the increased heartbeat announced by the monitor. "That's it, laddie, ye need ta wake up for me."

Rodney swallowed tightly as he stood at the foot of Sheppard's bed, fiddling with an undone button on his shirt, trying unsuccessfully to get the fingers of his left hand to cooperate. He couldn't be still, and he probably shouldn't speak, and his fidgeting fingers displayed his level of anxiety for any who cared to see.

It was Teyla's hand, falling on his shoulder and turning him to face her, that stilled his nervous movements. "Where did you come from?" he blurted out without thinking. "You could've given me a heart attack here!"

"We have been waiting for you to awaken," she said, nodding to indicate Ronon as well as herself, her voice quiet and calm. Her fingers deftly fastened the button, removing the outlet for Rodney's nervous energy as she continued, "Ronon stayed with you while I stayed with John."

"Oh," McKay swallowed hard and tugged the front of his shirt, his gaze sliding away from Teyla back to Sheppard, who was groggily coming to the surface. "What happened?" he demanded of the room in general and Carson in particular, but the physician's attentions were focused completely on John, and the scientist trailed off as he realized no one had an answer to his question, yet.

"C'mon, Colonel, I need ye ta open up those eyes," Carson cajoled, his hand steady on the colonel's shoulder with a kindly squeeze. "C'mon, now, no more sleepin' on the job," he teased gently.

"As if..." Rodney snorted; the one thing John Sheppard was _least_ likely to do was fall asleep on duty. He felt Teyla's hand on his good arm, and he looked at her with a mixture of annoyance and worry. "What? You know I'm right."

"That," Teyla said, with a slight smile that Rodney suspected was perhaps a _teeny_ bit patronizing, "I do not believe, is the point."

"I'm well aware of that," McKay shot back tightly. "I'm perfectly cognizant of the fact that there's an unknown alien substance in there trying to fry his brain, thank you very much."

"Rodney!" Beckett now; his voice was sharp and the look he threw at McKay even sharper. "Have ye forgotten the colonel's circumstances? _Think_, ye daft bugger, before ye speak." The physicist opened his mouth to make a retort and then seemed to reconsider; he snapped his mouth shut, and closed down his expression. Only a tic along his tightly-held jaw continued to betray his anxiety.

A soft groan broke from John's lips at last, drawing Carson's gaze back, and a faint frown now graced pale features. It was enough to melt the mask immediately from Rodney. "Sheppard..." he murmured, very, very softly now.

"_Auhhgo'..._" Something that was meant to sound like 'oh, god,' came next, and Carson squeezed the colonel's shoulder again, very gently.

"That's it, lad, almost there. Open ye'r eyes now," he encouraged, and this time was rewarded by two thin slivers of hazel between drowsy, dazed blinks. "Ahh, that's the ticket."

John blinked again, and slowly his brows knit together in a pained wince. "_Wha' 'appened?_" he managed to get out, slightly less incoherent than his first attempt at speaking. Carson fought his own rising sense of anxiety as he looked down at the pale, bruised face.

"What do ye remember?" he asked, deciding to turn the tables; if the toxin was affecting John's memory even further, they needed to know that. The Scot swallowed back a lump in his throat as he waited for the colonel's answer. Out of the corner of his eye, he was aware of motion at the foot of the bed, and glanced back just far enough to see Rodney shifting nervously from one foot to the other.

Sheppard appeared to consider the question, as if the very words had lost meaning for him, but finally he swallowed weakly and responded, "_Was talkin'...with...Weir_."

"Aye, ye were," Beckett responded, not even bothering to disguise the obvious relief in his voice or expression. "An' do ye remember what happened next?" he prompted gently. Another pause, an effort to focus beyond the moment, and the colonel's right hand reached up listlessly to rub against his temple. Finally Sheppard shook his head just a tiny bit. The wince that small amount of motion produced didn't escape anyone's notice.

"You...you passed out," Rodney volunteered helpfully, but with just enough of a high-strung edge of his voice that prompted an exasperated look from Carson. "Well, that's what you said he did," he defended himself.

"Aye," Carson agreed once more, this time with a soft sigh. "An' with a cry as loud as ta wake the dead, as the old sayin' goes." He reached for his patient's thin wrist, gently pulling John's hand away from his head and taking his pulse. "Elizabeth said ye seemed ta be in terrible pain." Blue eyes glanced back at hazel ones. "How are ye feelin' now, Colonel?"

"_Not...so great,_" John admitted, blinking drowsily. "_M'head really hurts_."

"Of...of course it hurts; you've got a concussion. They hurt like..." Rodney spluttered; the word 'crazy' died on his lips. "You know, they hurt a lot, so no surprise you've got a horrible headache."

Tired hazel eyes looked at McKay with an almost familiar irritation.

"_Make up...y' mind,_" John murmured wearily. "_Which is it...brain fryin' sub...stance...or concussion?_"

McKay froze like the proverbial deer in headlights. Beckett merely glared his displeasure. _Never tick off the man who wields the big needles_, the scientist thought grimly before plunging ahead.

"Both, maybe," he said with a tight swallow. He was aware of the glare intensifying, but his attention was completely on Sheppard. "He deserves to know, Carson. Give him that much respect." The jaw was firm, resolved, while inside McKay was anything but. He wished he'd kept quiet. _Maybe if I'd kept quiet it wouldn't be true_...

Blue eyes softened a bit, and Carson exhaled softly. Of course; it was rarely a good idea to keep things from a patient. He might catch it from Kate and possibly Elizabeth later, but Rodney had already let the cat out of the bag so to speak, and knowing John as he did, he didn't expect the colonel to let this little revelation go anytime soon. He nodded at last and looked back at John, who was stubbornly blinking in a bid to stay awake. Poor lad looked exhausted.

"Rodney's right," he finally said quietly. "When ye were taken, ye were injected with a neurological agent, somethin' we've never seen before." Carson paused, letting John have a moment to process what he was hearing before any further explanation. "We only have a vague idea what it might do ta ye once it starts breakin' down in ye'r system, and so far, there's no' any information ta help us with what ta expect or how ta counter it."

"_Yet_," Rodney interrupted stubbornly. "Right now, one of my...one of _our_ top people is on it, and as soon as _somebody_ brings along my computer I'll be back on it too. Trust me, we'll find what Carson needs to know so he can do his voodoo." Confused eyes drifted closed briefly, before reopening to focus hazily on Rodney. Carson followed John's gaze and he gave the pilot's shoulder a compassionate squeeze.

"_This thing...gonna kill me?_" John asked hoarsely, his eyes and his question pinning Rodney to the spot, despite being aware of Carson shifting uncomfortably beside him, and of the looks traded between Ronon and Teyla, who had both remained nearby. "_McKay_," he forced the issue, and the blue eyes staring at him narrowed abruptly as the scientist pressed his lips together briefly.

"Of course not," Rodney asserted with his usual condescending tone. He too was aware of the stares of the other three, but it was the tone _Sheppard_ would expect, the Sheppard that was still lurking somewhere beneath the hazy eyes looking up at him. _That_ Sheppard would demand answers, would expect genius. "Don't be ridiculous. We'll have this all figured out long before you're at death's door or anything like that." He waved his good hand dismissively as if swatting at a fly.

"_Okay, then,_" John exhaled irritably; despite complete, mind-numbing exhaustion overlaid by the hammer in his head, he was taut as the proverbial bowstring, his slender frame tensing warily. "_If you say so_..."

"John, lad," Carson prompted worriedly, drawing the tired, pained eyes toward him.

"_S' alright, Doc, I know...you can't make any promises,_" John mumbled, but there was no accusation in his tone, only a weary vulnerability that the colonel so rarely displayed and that Carson couldn't help but soothe.

"Well it seems that one's already been made for us," Beckett said comfortingly, with a slight nod toward the fidgeting scientist at the foot of the bed. "Ye know we'll do everythin' within our power, ta keep it."

"Doctor Beckett is quite correct," Teyla spoke up now, her expressive eyes having missed nothing throughout the entire exchange. "We are here, as you would say, for the long haul." The Athosian smiled warmly, but Rodney watched as John refused to relax...the tired, battered body shifting uneasily despite the fact that he was too injured to even get up on his own let alone go anywhere.

"We're your team," Rodney interjected now, with a determined expression the others were all quite familiar with. "Even if you don't remember us, there's no reason for you to doubt that. Give us a chance to do this. We saved your life; you owe us that much." He held John's gaze just as firmly; the scientist could only hope the colonel would make the instinctive leap at last to trust them. Until, that is, he cleared his throat slightly and tacked on, "Well, _they_ saved your life, technically; I was stuck here," Rodney motioned awkwardly toward Ronon and Teyla. "But I've saved your life before...all this, so...that'll have to be good enough. And yes, I _do_ say so."

There was a breathless moment, almost, of waiting...an insane hope perhaps that Sheppard would take him—take them—at his word. Pilot and scientist stared at each other; one wary, the other anxious. When the thin body fairly melted into the pillows, McKay knew the decision to trust had been made even before Sheppard opened his mouth.

"_Okay,_" John said simply, too tired and hurting far too much to elaborate.

"Okay," Rodney replied and moved at last from the foot of the bed to practically nudge Carson aside, ignoring the Scot's slight huff of protest. "We'll figure it out; we have to," he said simply. The flicker of anxiety in his eyes was badly disguised by what was meant to be a reassuring smile. Oddly enough, John responded to it, smiling back faintly until a heavy wince replaced it. "Carson!" Rodney exclaimed, but the physician was already in motion, firmly pushing him back out of the way.

"Easy now, Colonel," Carson murmured, only to glance up as the lights flickered once more. A frustrated expression crossed his features before he settled his attention back on his patient. "The headache's worse?" The dark head nodded just barely. Tension flooded back into the battered body, an instinctive attempt to defend itself from the onslaught. Carson placed one hand on John's shoulder, and the resulting flinch startled them both. "It's all right," he reassured even as his other hand fished in his lab coat pocket for his penlight. "I just need ta take a look at ye'r eyes."

"_Please...no_..." Sheppard's soft plea and the way he turned his head aside was worrisome; treating the lieutenant colonel more often meant dealing with the difficult combination of a high threshold for pain and sheer stubbornness. The open admissions of the headache earlier coupled with his guarded reaction now broadcast loud and clear the pain's growing intensity.

Beckett deftly turned Sheppard's head back toward him with an easy nudge. "I'll make it quick, lad," he promised, and gently pried one eyelid open and then the other, fast flicks of the penlight. Each was accompanied by a badly-suppressed groan, and the eyelids were squeezed shut instantly after.

"Doc?" Ronon, silent to this point, spoke up. He didn't like this at all.

Neither did Carson.

"Aye, I know," he reassured before turning to one of his staff and ordering the Ancient scanner be brought online. He leaned over John once more. "Colonel, lad, I'm goin' ta take another scan o' ye'r head an' see what's goin' on in there. In the meantime, try ta rest, an' I'll see about gettin' ye somethin' for the pain."

The next few moments were spent with Carson shooing the others away, much to their displeasure, and Rodney reluctantly allowed himself to be herded out as well. Not that he had much choice as Ronon had him by the sleeve of his good arm firmly pulling him along.

"Yes, yes, I understand Beckett needs some space to in which to work his voodoo arts but that doesn't mean you have to go all Cro-Magnon man and drag me back to your lair. Wait...Wait just a minute..." Rodney somehow managed to pull his arm free of the Satedan, some distance from the critical care area, and he looked back over his shoulder. The curtain was pulled; he couldn't see the colonel lying beyond. "Somebody get my laptop." He snapped his fingers. "And where's Hernandez?"

"I believe Dr. Hernandez was called away to help with the power problems," Teyla supplied, but before Rodney could demand whose bright idea _that_ was, Ronon again had a grip on him and was pulling him into the makeshift waiting area they'd all spent far too much time in lately.

"What the... Okay, this is taking the bouncer thing far too seriously. I mean, really, I don't..."

"McKay," the Satedan rumbled, and his tone was enough to stop Rodney in mid-sentence. The former Runner shoved something into Rodney's hand. The physicist paused to look at it, and a frown immediately blossomed on his face as he recognized the somewhat abused image he held.

"Sheppard's Genii mugshot...? What's it tell us, beside the fact that Sheppard doesn't take a bad picture even for a wanted poster...?" Rodney started to thrust the bounty picture back toward the Satedan when Ronon shook his head.

"We gotta talk."

* * *

"There ye are, Colonel; that'll help shortly, I promise."

Beckett's brogue lilted above him, and a few moments later John felt the coolness spread up the vein in his arm. He released the breath he'd been holding, content that soon he would be oblivious to the headache currently battering away at his brain. The bass-drum line seemed to have coalesced into a single, unbroken thrumming through his head. It didn't take much to imagine it splintering his head like a sustained high note shattering a wine glass.

"_Thanks, Doc_," he murmured, grateful even before the drug took effect. He managed to work his eyes open and looked up at kindly physician who was watching him worriedly. John had to admit that there were few enough doctors he'd actually ever come to _like_, let alone trust, and yet he found himself doing both with the Scot despite the fact that at this moment, the man was a virtual stranger.

He couldn't have explained it, even if he'd wanted to, but he found himself doing the same with the three that claimed to be his team. They were a motley crew, putting it mildly, and John found himself intrigued by the fact that he'd picked them himself, according to Weir. Particularly given that none of them appeared to be military, despite Ronon's assertion that he was "military enough." He wondered briefly what on earth had possessed him to make three _civilians_ his team members. Okay, one he could imagine easily enough, but all _three_?

"Are ye all right, Colonel?" Beckett again, although it almost took another attempt to bring a response; John had yet to get used to the 'Colonel Sheppard' business. He dredged up a small smile that he didn't really feel.

"_Yeah, just thinkin', Doc_," he promised, although he could tell already by the fuzzy feeling beginning to invade the edges of his mind that he wouldn't be doing too much more of that, at least not coherently. The upside of that being the constant bass note threatening to disintegrate his brain was being dulled considerably.

The smile, he realized an instant too late, was probably really idiotic now, but he also realized that he didn't necessarily care how drunk he looked if it meant he couldn't feel the monster headache for awhile. That it didn't kill him to breathe, that he couldn't feel the deep soreness of abdominal bruises, or the ache of the broken wrist were all side benefits.

John allowed his eyes to slide maybe halfway shut, a familiar lethargy stealing into his limbs as the painkiller strengthened in his system, pulling his thoughts far from the constant awareness of his injured body and allowing him to—somewhat—focus on other things. Limited by heavy-lidded eyes, his field of vision basically encompassed the immediate area around him; he watched with vague interest as Beckett and a pair of nurses prepared to move his bed. A faintly puzzled frown crossed his features as he wondered why they were moving him.

Beckett's brogue said something about a scanner, and John realized he must've asked that one out loud, and he managed a lazy nod in the doctor's direction. At last they began to roll the bed out into the triage section of the Infirmary, and John turned his head aside, his line of sight shifting to the window that was immediately to his right.

The wedge of sky he could see was brilliant blue, a perfect day for flying; barely a wisp of white cloud to be seen. It was the glimmer of sun-dappled water, however, that caught his attention, despite the pained squint the brightness caused him. He turned his head back after a moment, blinking away the afterimages of golden light on ripples of ocean. As his view shifted back to the interior of the Infirmary, John struggled to focus beyond the medicated fog settling into his head.

A faint frown touched his features as he gazed around at the unfamiliar architecture. It had an airy, ethereal feel to it, quite unlike any military base of operations he'd ever seen. _Military and scientific expedition_, he reminded himself, and idly wondered what billionaire corporation was bankrolling this outfit; it certainly wasn't any bare-bones expeditionary outpost, either. Even given Congressional excess, he couldn't quite imagine it being solely a government operation.

"_Too pretty...to be federally funded_..." he mumbled drowsily to himself, completely missing the curious, almost amused expression to cross Beckett's features as the doctor and nurses guided him toward an unfamiliar device.

"All right, John, we're goin' ta lower ye down so we can get a good scan," the Scot was saying, warning him in advance of the movement. They were careful as they eased him into lying horizontally, but it still occurred to John that it was probably a ridiculously good idea that he was too drugged to care.

"_'Kay_..." he mumbled his assent perhaps a moment or two too late. He blinked hazily as his field of vision was suddenly encompassed by the nearness of the device, and he felt a hand on his shoulder a moment later.

"Easy, lad," Beckett said. "'Tis only goin' ta take a moment."

He must have zoned out then, because the next thing that registered with John were fingers gently but firmly pressing small sensor pads along both of his temples. He couldn't help but groan as the slight pressure was enough, even with the painkiller, to remind him of the steady ache that the drug masked.

"All done, Colonel Sheppard," the nurse said very softly yet with a cheery demeanor. "I'm sorry if that hurt, but you're all set now."

"_Se' for wha'_...?" John found himself slurring much as he had when he'd come to the last time, and he resisted the urge to shake his head, instinctively realizing what a bad idea that would be.

"We're just goin' ta monitor ye'r EEG for a time, Colonel," Beckett explained calmly, even as he activated the unit. "The scan came up with some irregular activity an' I just want ta keep an eye on it."

John swallowed tightly, fuzzy thoughts trying to catch up to that one. _Irregular activity_... "_Brain-fryin'_...?" he finally managed, McKay's words from earlier coming to mind. He blinked drowsily but didn't miss the concerned set to the physician's features.

"I dunna know, John," Beckett was straight up with him and John appreciated that more than he could articulate at the moment. "That's why we're goin' ta keep ye hooked up ta the EEG for the time bein'."

"_That why...can't 'member anythin'_...?" John managed to get out, and while he would have loved it to be more demanding of answers, it just came out sounding troubled and tired. He felt weight against his shoulder, realized it was the doctor's hand. "_Doc?_" he pressed, not caring if he sounded overly anxious.

"I'm afraid I dunna have the answer ta that yet either," Beckett finally answered just as honestly. "But Rodney's right about one thing; we _are_ workin' vera hard on it." The Scot gave him a smile that John found oddly reassuring despite the situation. "We'd rather keep ye around, ye know," he 'explained' conspiratorially. "Believe it or no', ye keep Rodney from drivin' the rest o' us crazy. Now, I can see it's about all ye can do ta stay awake; stop fightin' it, an' get some sleep."

John exhaled wearily. He was tired of sleeping, but it seemed his battered body and mind had other plans for him. Combined with the medication keeping the pain at bay, it really _was_ more effort than it apparently was worth to stay awake. "_Sucks...t'day...w' be nice flyin'_," he grumbled as his eyes fluttered closed. He heard the soft chuckle above him but didn't bother reopening his eyes; sleep was not far off.

"I'm afraid ye will no' be doin' any flyin' anytime soon, Colonel. Let's concentrate on gettin' ye healed up first an' then we'll worry about everythin' else."

Beckett's advice droned in his ears, however as he let go of uncertain thoughts and unfamiliar surroundings and surrendered to sweet promise of painless sleep.

Carson sighed softly as he realized his patient had finally drifted off on him, and he reached over to pull the blanket up a little over the colonel's thin and abused body. Losing the bedside manner expression for the time being, his appearance softened into one of outright worry and in this moment he didn't care who saw it. Blue eyes glanced from one monitor's readings to the other, frowned a little as he looked at John's EEG. Even asleep, there was unusual synaptic activity taking place that there was little explanation for at this time beyond the neurological nature of the toxin that had been pumped into the pilot.

The latest round of blood-work would determine if the toxin had begun breaking down into John's system, but what that would mean for the colonel was still incredibly uncertain. Although if pressed, Carson would confess concerns that John's current levels of discomfort seemed to confirm his initial theory that the drug interfered with the proper firing of pain receptors, tricking John into feeling hurts that didn't exist on top of the ones that actually did.

"Bloody inhuman is what it is," Beckett muttered to himself, pulling up a nearby stool and settling down beside his patient. At the moment, the colonel was his greatest priority and biggest question mark, so he had absolutely no misgivings in spending a few extra minutes. Given the amount of the substance present, quite likely the unpleasant effects for Sheppard would only increase over time, and there were still no answers as to how long they would last, or what the ultimate result of prolonged exposure to the toxin would be.

It was one of those times in medicine, the Scot mused to himself, when the challenges of treating a serious disease were preferable, if the disease was a known condition, over the unknown or inexplicable ailment. In the case of the former there were definitive courses of treatment, methods to alleviate symptoms, medicines to soothe the suffering. Even if the first course of treatment wasn't successful, often there were other avenues that likely would produce the desired results. In the case of the latter, however, the search for a viable treatment protocol was too much like guesswork or playing chance with that life in his hands and that was a helpless feeling that Carson detested.

Unfortunately, he reflected darkly, the unknown and inexplicable were much more familiar ground in the Pegasus Galaxy, leading him to walk the tightrope more often than he was comfortable, pressing his luck as well as his skills to deny Death its prize. A faint smile crossed Carson's features and he shook his head at himself. "A wee bit maudlin, mind," he murmured apologetically despite the fact that even if John had been awake to hear it, he'd likely have to explain himself. "Or overly poetic... Me mum would say ta buck up," he added sagely.

It didn't stop him from watching anxiously over the colonel for a handful of moments longer, or from hoping for the last word over the unknown and inexplicable, one more time.

* * *

Rodney glanced up and sighed dramatically as the lights fluctuated once again. "You _know_ I should be busy saving the city now, right?" he glared at his teammates briefly at the entrance to his lab, but the pause was met by an intimidating glare in return from Ronon; the Satedan folding his arms across his chest impatiently.

"I am sure Radek has things well in hand, Rodney," Teyla reassured once again, to which the physicist sniffed disdainfully. "If he did not, I am certain he would have sent for you by now."

"You truly don't get the concept of ego, do you?" McKay's interrogative was less a true question than a curious observation as he canted his head at her. "Zelenka will bang his head against the wall until I come up with a brilliant solution," he asserted as the three of them entered the lab.

"Wouldn't that hurt?" Ronon asked, but his tone was so dry Rodney couldn't tell if he was being serious or not and looking up into the deadpan expression Ronon wore didn't clarify things at all. Rodney resisted rolling his eyes at the Satedan, settling instead for a look that said _you're kidding me, right_?

"It's a figure of speech," he dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand as he pulled up a stool to the nearest workstation, plugging in the laptop he'd retrieved from Carson's office on their way out. "Radek might not exactly be on the same genius level as I am, but I think it goes without saying that he's at least past the temper-tantrum stage of problem-solving. Mostly."

Ronon raised an eyebrow, giving Teyla a sidelong look that she returned, knowing Rodney was too absorbed in getting the laptop started up and plugged into the Ancient database to notice their amusement. While some of the Earthers' speech and methods of doing things could be confusing or puzzling, more often the two Pegasus natives were picking up the meanings of sayings and customs without needing much in the way of explanation.

Still, Ronon was not above baiting the scientist. He came around the end of the workstation, leaning casually against it. "You just say he's smarter 'n you?" Teyla smothered a smile as Rodney looked up distractedly.

"What? _Zelenka_...?" McKay fairly sputtered at the former Runner as he waved that off just as dismissively. "Be serious."

"Yeah," Ronon deadpanned. "Not sure you got past that stage yet..."

"Oh, very funny," McKay's expression soured while the others broke into outright grins. "Sheppard's a bad influence on you two," he grumbled before sighing resignedly. "Hello, middle of a couple of crises here; can we get on with things?" The scientist snapped his fingers rapid-fire and then held out his hand. Ronon produced the Genii picture once again and handed it over; McKay's forehead bunched into a frown as he studied the 'mug shot' of the lieutenant colonel. "And tell me why we're bothering to analyze this _again_?"

"Gotta run it through that translation thing," Ronon encouraged, motioning vaguely with one hand toward the laptop, indicating the translation software that Rodney used in deciphering Ancient material.

"_Because_...?" The frown deepened if anything. "We already know what it is, and who was behind..."

"Rodney," Teyla intervened now, coming around to the scientist's side. "What Ronon and I wish to learn is if any of the languages on this image match anything the Ancients may have in the database regarding the Isturans." The Athosian held Rodney's gaze steadily, and she smiled encouragingly as the scientist's expression shifted from irritation into dawning comprehension.

"You...you think they had something to do with Sheppard's kidnapping?" Rodney looked away from Teyla; he glanced randomly along the lab table without truly seeing its contents as his mind worked over that bit of information. "I _knew_ there was something about that old man I didn't like, and it wasn't just his daughter making eyes at Colonel Kirk, either."

"We do not know if it was Yin'e, or even if it was any of his people, yet," Teyla said equitably. "But Ronon and I believe the fire that destroyed the Isturan village was set on purpose. Whether it was done by Colonel Sheppard's captors or by one or more of the villagers themselves is unclear. That is what Ronon and I wish to investigate. If we can establish a link between this," Teyla tapped the picture Rodney still held, "and Istura..."

"...Weir will have to let us go back and find out," Ronon finished for her with a shrug of his broad shoulders. Rodney blinked a moment, before inhaling sharply and putting the picture of Sheppard down on the lab table beside his laptop.

"Right, right; getting to work," he agreed as even one-handed his fingers darted over the laptop's keyboard. "This might take a little time," he warned with a quick glance at Ronon in particular. "There's a lot of ground to cover," he defended when the Satedan glared. "Do you know how many potential written languages could exist in the database?"

"Let us know when you have something," Teyla entreated, staving off any further distraction Ronon might provide. Rodney typed another set of commands and got up absently, moving around Teyla to collect a second laptop to employ it as well; there was still the search for Sheppard's mystery drug to be considered. "Rodney?"

"Yes, yes, of course," McKay made a sour face as if to say that went without saying. "You can give me a hand, though; I'm not doing this all by myself."

"What can we do?" Ronon asked skeptically.

"Find Hernandez and get him down here. I don't care what Zelenka has him working on; I need to know how far he got looking for that toxin," Rodney demanded effortlessly as he continued typing, manipulating the parameters of both the search and translation interfaces.

"He'll be here," Ronon promised solidly. If it was something he could to do help Sheppard, he was going to make sure it was done. Moving away from the table, he straightened up and nodded once as if to "seal the deal," as Sheppard might say.

"While you're at it, bring back a sandwich, willya?" Rodney entreated without looking up from his work, but when there was no response forthcoming, he picked up his head to see Ronon staring at him impassively from the doorway. "Look, I realize this isn't the Atlantis Catering Service but seriously, I haven't had anything since the crack of dawn and I'm starving. Somehow I doubt you'd appreciate a hypoglycemic collapse preventing me from finishing this little project."

"We will stop by the mess hall on the way back," Teyla interjected, not giving Ronon the chance to protest.

"Oh, good," Rodney said, relieved, as he bent his head back to the laptop. "I'd hate to have Sheppard's survival hinge on something as insignificant as a sandwich." Intent on his purpose, the scientist completely missed the slight shakes of his team-mates' heads and the looks they passed each other on the way out. Rodney's focus, they knew, was as their own, to aid their team-leader and friend. To that end, if it took a sandwich to help McKay find the answers they were looking for, they would gladly bring him back a plateful, in order to have John Sheppard returned to them.

They departed the lab to the sound of rapid hunt-and-peck typing.

* * *

Elizabeth stood quietly on one of Atlantis' many balconies, gazing out to the horizon as a late afternoon sun cast its light over the rippling waves below, unbothered by the breeze rifling through her hair. She lifted a mug and sipped the tea within, wishing absently that she could carry the peace of this moment back into her office to somehow make it a permanent fixture.

A weary sigh slipped out before she even realized it, and she put the mug down on the broad rail that ringed this particular balcony. It inhabited a level almost equal distance from her office and the Infirmary, and despite being on the "beaten path," not many frequented the small nook overlooking the central section of Atlantis and the ocean beyond. It had been, in fact, John Sheppard who had introduced her to this nearly hidden little place, albeit quite by accident. Elizabeth smiled to herself slightly as she recalled the circumstances; as she remembered it, the then Major Sheppard had been avoiding the fallout from a practical joke played upon a certain astrophysicist. She sighed again, and reached up to rub the bridge of her nose.

"You sound tired," a quiet voice said behind her, startling Elizabeth _almost_ enough to knock her mug from the railing; she had a brief mental image of someone far below getting showered in tea. Despite circumstances, that was nearly enough to make her chuckle. Instead, she composed herself with a deep breath and turned around.

"Halling," Weir blinked, surprised to see the speaker was indeed the tall Athosian. "Is everything all right over on the mainland?" She blurted out the first concern that popped into her mind at Halling's unexpected appearance; that of the well-being of Teyla's people.

"Doctor Weir," Halling greeted with a slight cant of his head. "I apologize; I did not mean to frighten you. Yes, everything is well with our people," he reassured before going on. "I came to see if Doctor Beckett deems Wickley ready to return to his family; I merely wished to greet you before going to the Infirmary. One of the personnel in the control room directed me here."

"Of course," Elizabeth responded with a small smile now, and motioned for Halling to join her if he so wished, only turning back to the vista below once he had drawn near the rail. "I'm glad to hear things are good with you; how is Jinto?"

"Jinto is also quite well," Halling's smile was that of a proud father. "He seems to be outgrowing all of his clothing, almost faster than it can be made, and is beginning to learn the skills of the hunter. Before I know it, he will come of age and I will wonder where the seasons fled so quickly."

"Time has a way of getting away from us," Elizabeth said quietly, a half-smile that she didn't feel touching her lips as she picked up the mug once more. "Whether or not we want it to," she added, realizing just how true that was for John, and how true it had been, really, for the rest of them as they had conducted their search for him. "Fast, or slow, makes no difference; it just...goes." A moment's silence fell between them.

"It is my understanding that Colonel Sheppard has been found," Halling broke the quiet moment first, turning slightly to look at Elizabeth. She nodded minutely, not looking back at Halling just yet, her fingers wrapping tightly around the now rapidly-cooling mug. "Teyla tells me he was harmed by his captors."

Elizabeth couldn't help but look up now, and she swallowed convulsively. "Yes," she confirmed quietly, "Yes, he was." She couldn't bring herself to elaborate; it was still too near and still far easier than she liked for her imagination to run away with her whenever she thought too much about the time John had been missing. Yet, in the eyes that looked down at her now, Elizabeth saw only kindness.

"Will he recover?" Halling inquired now, and she knew then that Teyla had at least partially explained John's condition. Whether that explanation had included John's missing memory, or merely his physical state, was not readily apparent. Elizabeth pulled in a slow breath, glancing back out over the water before looking back up at the tall Athosian beside her.

"We are doing everything we can to help him," she promised firmly.

"That was not what I asked," Halling replied insightfully. He regarded her unwaveringly, and Elizabeth found herself turning away from the balcony rail to face him fully, his gaze as compelling as it was compassionate. Finally Elizabeth bowed her head briefly, just a small moment to break the understated tension and regain control of her own building sense of anxiety. "My son," Halling finally prompted, "is among many of our children who are very fond of Colonel Sheppard. What am I to tell them upon my return?"

Elizabeth raised her eyes once again, away from Halling's chest where her gaze had settled, back up to his face. She didn't try to disguise her obvious concerns, despite doing her best to project a measure of calm in her bearing. "I don't know," she admitted truthfully, swallowing hard. "There are...some unusual circumstances surrounding John's return, and his condition. We've only just gotten him back, Halling. The recovery he makes will take time, and we don't know everything he's up against, and..." Elizabeth touched suddenly dry lips with the tip of her tongue. "I don't know," she repeated quietly.

"The wrong is not in lacking the necessary answers," Halling said steadily, at last shifting his gaze from the expedition leader to the breathtaking vista before them. "Often it is in not asking the necessary questions."

"Halling..." Weir stiffened now and she put down the mug, her expression becoming distressed.

"Certainly there have been doubts between our peoples," Halling admitted frankly, but not unkindly. "But you, including Colonel Sheppard...perhaps _especially_ Colonel Sheppard, have proved Teyla's faith in you all. The time has come, Doctor Weir, when you must allow us to prove ourselves in return on Sheppard's behalf."

"It's not a matter of faith, or about proving anything," Elizabeth protested. "It's a matter of not handing someone else over to an enemy—an unknown enemy at that."

"Perhaps this enemy is not as unknown as you propose," Halling interjected, and there was no hiding the surprise that flashed across Elizabeth's face. Teyla apparently had spoken in greater detail to Halling than Elizabeth had expected. "We have dealt with the Genii many years longer than you have been in this galaxy. While they dealt deceptively with us all, our people are more familiar with them and if they have spies on Istura, we will root them out."

Elizabeth pressed her lips together briefly in a disapproving line before sighing softly and folding her arms across her chest. "Then tell me, Halling, do you believe Ladon Radim would so quickly break the alliance that established him as leader of the Genii?" The issue of Kolya, Elizabeth considered a separate matter and she was already well acquainted with how ruthless the former Genii commander could be in the pursuit of his goals. That, at least, was much more of a certainty than the fledgling truce with Radim. She watched as Halling canted his head thoughtfully.

"Perhaps the more necessary question to ask, Doctor Weir, is what _you_ believe Ladon would do." The tall Athosian paused briefly. "If, that is, you are considering the possibility of...expanding the field of your investigation."

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow slightly, giving Halling a look that was almost amused. "Did Teyla and Ronon put you up to this? They've been after me to let them go back to Istura for a little heart-to-heart talk with their Council regarding John's abduction. I'll admit; I want to know how far we can trust these people, but not at the expense of our own."

"No," Halling answered with a slight smile. "They did not, not directly. However, I happen to agree that this is the course of action we must take if we are to uncover the necessary answers." The Athosian's smile deepened as Elizabeth's eyebrow quirked a little higher.

"We?" she echoed curiously. Halling nodded slowly, the smile melting into something more serious.

"I am not the only Athosian who is willing to accompany Teyla and Ronon to Istura, or anywhere else we are needed to go," he said calmly, but firmly, "As I said, Doctor Weir, Colonel Sheppard has done much for us all, and for the city of the Ancestors. Now it is our turn...to do what we can for him."

Elizabeth regarded Halling for a long moment before finally nodding a little bit. "Thank you, Halling," she prefaced first, wanting him to know how much she did appreciate the sentiment, for John's sake. "I'm still considering Teyla and Ronon's request, but as soon as I've made a decision, I'll let you know."

"Very well," Halling left it at that; he bowed his head slightly toward her in acquiescence. "I will await your answer along with the others, but I cannot promise that we will abide by it. If we believe it necessary to act, you cannot keep us from leaving."

Elizabeth inhaled sharply; she was already well aware that Halling's statement was more than truth, it was a trump card. The fact that Ronon and Teyla had not played it themselves, despite their impatience to help John, said much for the growing cohesion of Atlantis' premiere team and deepening loyalty to their team leader.

"I understand," she finally responded as she retrieved the tea mug and turned away from the railing completely. "Believe me, Halling, if the Genii are at all responsible, there's nothing I'd like better than to exact a little retribution, but that's not necessarily a viable option. Plus, there are...other circumstances I have to consider. All I'm asking for is a little more patience."

"Then you shall have it," Halling answered steadily, falling into step beside Elizabeth as she left the balcony. "We will speak again once I have seen to Wickley."

Elizabeth merely nodded silently as she parted ways with the tall Athosian, and she hoped that by the time he returned the decision she made would be the right one, and one they could all live with. She wondered briefly as she headed back to her office if she would be able to reach an answer that achieved both of those goals.

"Maybe," she murmured to herself. "And then, maybe not."

* * *

Light filtered in gradually as John turned his head and sluggishly blinked his eyes open. He felt a tiny tug on the skin at his temple and realized belatedly that he was still attached to the EEG; the minor motion dragging the wire across his pillow. It took another moment between thundering heartbeats to remember _why_ he was dragging around more wires and a slow frown gathered.

"John?" The voice came from his other side, and he carefully maneuvered his head back the other way, blinking a little harder to help focus as a face swam into view. _Pretty face_, he decided as the features solidified in his vision.

The woman next to him smiled demurely. "Nice of you to say so, Colonel," she said pleasantly and John, embarrassed at having spoken aloud without realizing it, felt a slight flush crawl into his face. _Way to go, John,_ he kicked himself—mentally this time—and offered up a winsome smile of his own.

"_My drill...instructor back...Academy used...t' say, 'Cadet, forget...flirtin' on the...morphine...y' won't remember...what...y' said and the...field medics...won't forget_.'"

"Sounds like a real charmer, your instructor," the woman said and the smile deepened a little. "But, I don't think you need to worry too much about 'flirting under the influence;' I won't tell anyone." John chuckled, a rather breathy sound, until both head and ribs declared painful disapproval and he stopped with a soft grunt. "Do you need me to get Doctor Beckett?" Pretty-Face asked, and John dismissed the suggestion with a slight wave.

"_Nah...Just gotta remember...laughing...bad. Drugs...good_," he kidded, turning the back of his IV hand toward her. "_John Sheppard...Nice to meet you. Again, probably...with the way things've...been going_."

"Yes, again," the woman said warmly and came a little closer. "Kate Heightmeyer."

John stiffened slightly, feeling a little like that proverbial deer in headlights and more than a little disoriented. "_I slept...that long?_" he mumbled as he cautiously reached up to his temple, scratching just at the edge of the sensor pad; the adhesive made his skin itch.

"No," Kate said, and the gentle smile was back. "You didn't. I realize Doctor Weir told you we'd speak later, but when I heard about what happened earlier, I thought I'd stop by and see how you're doing."

John dropped his hand away from his forehead, letting it drape loosely across his waist as he regarded the psychologist warily. "_Not doin'...anything much_..." he started, and then changed direction. "_Y'know...not sure I'm really_..." He nearly flinched when Kate interrupted the beginnings of a perfectly good tirade by placing a hand on his shoulder. "_I mean...I don't think...this is...such a...great_..."

"John, I'm _not_ the enemy, here," Kate asserted kindly. "No one here is blaming you for anything, and whatever issues cropped up during debriefings in the past will have no bearing on anything we discuss now. There are a lot of people here who just want to see you heal, and that includes recovering your memory to the fullest extent possible."

_We're your team...Give us a chance to do this_. Rodney's plea drifted through his mind and John swallowed thickly, blinking slowly as he considered it. Something had prompted him to trust the scientist without benefit of knowing the how's and why's behind their association. Despite his desire to practice avoidance in peace, without someone analyzing his dream life or some other aspect of his psyche, he found himself being tugged by it again. _There are a lot of people here who just want to see you heal_.

"_Me...me too,_" he finally admitted. Whether or not he liked it, Heightmeyer might be his best chance to plug the gap in his memory. John's eyes closed as he sighed wearily, cringing when the sharp exhalation reminded him yet _again_ of his sore, bruised abdomen and broken ribs.

"What?" Kate asked lightly, pressing only when he declined to answer. "What is it?" John reached up again to rub a fingertip around the edges of the irritating sensor pads, careful not to dislodge them.

"_It's just...weird_," John grumbled, and he didn't bother looking to see if the shrink was watching him. He felt like crap and he didn't know where he was or with whom half the time; if _that_ didn't qualify him to indulge in a little grumpiness, he didn't know what would. "_Too weird. You all know...all this..._stuff."

"We don't just know who you are; we're _familiar_ with you," Kate filled in, her tone gentle. "I imagine that's a little unsettling." John nodded very slightly in spite of himself, but he avoided sighing in frustration as he wasn't keen on inviting a return chorus of aches and pains.

"_In here..._" he lifted his hand just enough to gesture toward his head. "_...you're all unfamiliar...just drawin'...blanks_." John squinted a little, gazing at Kate with as much intensity as injuries and medication would allow; if he could just _think_, could just rattle the cage trapping his memories hard enough, get just _one_ recollection to pop loose...

John felt a hand touch his and realized suddenly that he'd clenched a fistful of the blanket covering him in his fingers without even registering the tug of the IV. He let go with a slight hiss of discomfort, and his expression grew a little sheepish as the counselor gave his hand a small pat.

"John, no one expects you to figure it all out right this second," she said, her voice just as gentle as her touch. She pulled her hand back and offered him a smile. "There's plenty of time to work on getting your memory back, but it's not the original purpose of my visit."

"_Oh...yeah?_" John murmured guardedly, tension creeping back into his tone as he regarded his visitor. "_Confessing...a hidden agenda...there, Doc?_" he tried for distracting charm; it came off sounding cautious and tired. "_Ink tests, id and...ego...Freudian slips_?"

"Soup, actually," Kate answered and she moved aside a little to reveal a mug sitting on a nearby table with a short straw poking out the top. "Doctor Beckett said if you were feeling up to trying it, I could be your dinner companion. I thought it would be a good way for us to become reacquainted." Along with the mug, there was a plate with a sandwich and a carton of milk for Kate. "Broth, if you want to be technical, but I think that it's chicken."

John was surprised when his stomach actually grumbled in response; he'd been too caught up in his various hurts to truly register hunger. As Kate picked up the mug and he got a whiff of the broth inside, he realized his belly ached with more than just soreness and bruises; his captors had practically starved him. "_Smells good_," he admitted grudgingly, and decided Kate's visit could be prolonged long enough to eat. Or drink, as the case may be.

Kate held the mug for him at first, and John took a pair of small sips. The broth tasted good, and he actually groaned slightly with pleasure at the warm, not overly-hot liquid on his throat and stomach. Encouraged by those first sips, with no immediate threat of the liquid making a return appearance, John reached for the mug to hold it himself. Pleasure turned to mild frustration when he found that he was too shaky to manage it with one good hand and the other trapped in a cast.

Kate simply reached over and steadied his hand without taking the mug or saying a word, and John had to admit he appreciated her unobtrusive aid; he felt the unreasonable heat of embarrassment rush into his face. Whether or not the psychologist noticed, she didn't comment on it, just allowing him to concentrate on sipping more of the broth. After a moment or two, she began to talk about safe, innocuous subjects; nephews back home and hobbies. John found himself relaxing almost against his will; between her quiet voice and a full stomach he felt drowsiness creeping up on him. Finally he gave up and closed heavy eyelids; sleep followed not long after.

"Nicely handled, m'dear," Carson's gentle brogue murmured to her right, and Kate glanced over her shoulder as the Scot drew alongside.

"He managed about a third of it," Kate observed uncertainly, and Carson peered over to gauge for himself how much liquid remained in the mug.

"That's better than I thought he'd do," he replied with a smile. "His belly's been denied enough that we'll have ta be a wee bit gentle with it until he begins ta adjust ta havin' somethin' in it. But it's a step forward; lass, an' right now I'll take every one o' those I can get."

The pair moved out of the immediate area and Kate risked a quick glance back over her shoulder. John slept on, although she noticed that even now his face carried a faint echo of pain. Turning back to Carson, she offered him a small smile in return.

"He's been through a lot," she stated the obvious, clasping her hands before her as they walked. "And he's trying very hard to keep an even keel; not so easy to do when you're in pain and you feel like your world's been turned upside-down."

"Aye," Carson agreed fully. "I could no' agree with ye more; I dunna think I'd be doin' half so well in similar circumstances."

"I think we need to ground him a little," Kate suggested with a slight incline of her head. "As much as his treatment and condition allow it, providing him with a...schedule of sorts might be a good start. A little routine might go a long way to helping Colonel Sheppard to at least feel like he's _supposed_ to be here; knowing a few things to expect and when to expect them will help him settle into the idea that he has a place with us."

Carson tilted his head slightly, considering it as he did so. "That might be a good idea, dependin' on what ye have in mind," he agreed.

"Well I'm not talking about entering him into a marathon or anything," Kate kidded lightly and she was glad to see Carson actually smile along with her. "I think for now, maybe just lunch everyday with some usually familiar faces would be a good start...Elizabeth, his team...Major Lorne. The more we can make this feel normal for him...Don't look at me like that, Carson."

"We've been here nigh two years, lassie, an' I've yet ta figure on it bein' _normal_," Beckett interjected half-seriously, but then he canted his head slightly with a smile. "But it _is_ home now," he admitted. "I canna imagine bein' anywhere else in two galaxies, no' anymore. No' after Atlantis." He smiled. "She may exist in a vera strange place, but she's a right fair mistress."

"'She?'" Kate replied with a slight quirk of her eyebrows.

"Ships o' many kinds have always been referred ta as lovely maidens," Carson said warmly. "An' Atlantis, at her heart, is a space-farin' vessel. I dunna think there's a better compliment for our fine city."

"Well, when you put it that way, I think I could be persuaded to agree with you," Kate smiled. "So what do you think? Lunch-dates to start? The more familiar things and people we can surround John with, the more likely we are to stimulate his mind, without any undue pressure, to hopefully start tapping some of those missing memories."

"Aye lass, I think we may just be able ta accommodate ye."

"Good. I'll speak with the others about it," Kate confirmed as they stopped near the Infirmary entrance and she turned slightly to gaze back toward the critical care area. While John was now beyond her line of sight, the psychologist's expression was thoughtful. "We may have our work cut out for us," she remarked seriously now. "You know as well as I do, maybe better, the kinds of percentages we're looking at in regards to John regaining a functional grasp of his past here."

"I know," Carson said quietly, his smile fading away as well, replaced with worry and yet a steely sort of resolve. "Believe me, Kate, I know. But I'm no' goin' ta start quotin' numbers yet. Just because a hill is a wee bit steep, let's no' make it Everest." Blue eyes followed Kate's gaze. "No' yet," he repeated softly.

"Of course you're right," Heightmeyer agreed with a tight nod. "We're only getting started. I just think we need to approach this very realistically, for the Colonel's sake as well as our own." She looked at Carson, whose gaze was still cast behind them, and she reached up to put a hand on his arm, drawing his eyes back to her. "I told Elizabeth that I would do everything I can to help John recover his memory, and I intend to do so. But you and I both know that ultimately this is out of our hands; it's up to him."

"Aye," Carson had to agree with that. They could—and would—do everything in their power and quite likely more to help the John Sheppard they knew come back to them. Whether or not that John Sheppard returned rested on the man himself and how well—or poorly—he was able to respond to those efforts. "So long as ye bear in mind that it's no' the first time the Colonel's faced down some vera long odds. Dunna count him out just yet, lassie."

Kate merely nodded, and she took her leave with a promise to visit their patient again soon. As she started off down the hallway, she could only hope that Colonel Sheppard was up to the challenge that was looming before him. Like Carson, she could take comfort in the fact that the Air Force pilot had indeed conquered some daunting "Everests" the Pegasus Galaxy had thrown at him. All they could do now was to give him the tools to beat this one; the climbing was going to be all up to him.

* * *

Teyla picked a little at the fruit left in a small dish, and glanced over at Ronon. The Satedan had slumped forward on the stool he'd perched upon; head pillowed in his arms on the table before him, long dreadlocks obscuring his face but unfortunately not his snoring. He was blissfully unaware of his surroundings, including the click of computer keys and the occasional muttered curse or more frequent "come _on_" being uttered by Rodney.

The scientist himself moved between computers, having dismissed Hernandez some time ago, the moment the Puerto Rican had given him the information needed to continue the research of Sheppard's mystery toxin. Flexing the fingers of his good hand as he turned from one table to another, Rodney leaned down to check a second and third laptop now scouring the Ancient database for linguistic matches to the various languages on the Genii bounty picture.

"Interesting..." Rodney murmured to himself as his fingers clicked across the keyboard, and Teyla couldn't help but lean forward a little.

"You have found something...?" she said, her voice more than a little hopeful. The Athosian nudged aside the dish; pushing up from the stool she'd been seated on next to Ronon, she joined Rodney in front of the pair of computers.

"What?" Rodney spared her a glance and then sighed softly. "No, not...well not what I'm _looking_ for, yet. At least two, maybe three of these languages are some sort of derivative of Ancient, which given what we know about the Ancients' activities in this galaxy...isn't all that surprising, really." He stabbed a finger at one of the lines written on Sheppard's 'wanted poster.' "This one apparently is the written communication of the Manarians. Tsk, tsk still buddies with the Genii, there's a shock..."

"I remember," Teyla replied steadily.

"And this one..." Rodney picked up the picture and held it beside one of the laptop screens for a visual comparison, "...looks like it belongs to those tree-people on that planet with the weird cat-things. Remember...little furballs with the purple eyes and the whip-like tails?" Rodney moved to the next computer and tapped a pair of keys, bringing up a screen full of information. "You know, one of those pseudo-felines left a welt on my leg. I was just making nice; my cat loved it when you rubbed his ears. How was I supposed to know that... oh, hello."

"Rodney?" Teyla stepped a little closer, dark eyes alert and watching.

"How did I miss this?" McKay muttered to himself and blue eyes narrowed in concentration as he waved the picture of Sheppard like a fan. "Do we still have those original copies around here somewhere, back from when Ladon engineered his wonderful little coup?"

"I do not know."

"Yeah, think so," Ronon said at the same moment as he lifted his head from the table. Teyla's voice had awakened him at the start of her conversation with McKay; now that it sounded like something important had finally been found, he entered into the discussion as he pushed himself upright. "I remember somebody askin' Weir for one," he stated with a slight shrug. "Think she gave 'em one of yours. Somethin' about some target practice."

"Nice," Rodney replied with just the right amount of sarcasm.

"Not really," Ronon shrugged and ignored the annoyed glare he received in return. "Just wanted to see what you'd say. I think Doctor Weir still has 'em." The Satedan waited a beat, frowning slightly as he watched Rodney poring over the image of John in his hand. "Why?"

"I just realized something, and if I'm right, I may have an idea where your smoking gun is," Rodney said absently, until he noticed Ronon glancing down at the holster strapped to his thigh. The scientist snapped his fingers and gave the taller man a roll of the eyes. "Oh c'mon, don't tell me with all the action flicks Sheppard's been feeding you, that you don't have a handle on the clichés. Smoking gun...the murder weapon, or at the very least, the piece of the puzzle you need to put it all together." When Ronon folded his arms across his chest, Rodney gave up. "Just...go get me one of the original copies of Sheppard's mugshot from Elizabeth so I can see if I'm right."

"Mugshot," Teyla echoed with a slight lift of her eyebrows.

"In keeping with the spirit of the whole metaphor...just...just go get the stupid picture."

"Be right back," Ronon promised and he pushed up from the table and headed out of the lab.

"What is it that you have found, Rodney?" Teyla asked directly, now and she watched as Rodney put down the picture of John and returned to the keyboard, very cautiously easing his arm out of the sling to type briefly with both hands.

"This is the one I need to concentrate on," McKay answered distractedly, pausing only long enough to point at the particular scribble-like message scrawled on the bottom of the picture, across Sheppard's chest. "It's the only one that I haven't come close to identifying."

"And this one?" Teyla pointed at another version of the message. "I do not believe you have identified this one either."

"Technically, no," Rodney conceded. "But according to what I've found so far, it appears to be another derivative from the same Ancient foundation. Plus, those I _have_ identified all belong to established or former allies of the Genii..._except_ my guy." Rodney pointed again. "It doesn't carry the same markers pointing back to the original Ancient, and it's not attached to any of the planets we've noted as Genii trading partners or allies." He shook his head. "Never thought I'd say it, but what I wouldn't give to have Jackson here to look over this."

New search parameters entered, Rodney abandoned the pair of computers and turned his attention back to the one dedicated to going through the Ancient medical database. So far, that had been as frustrating as the linguistics search, and a tight sort of squeezing in his chest reminded him that Sheppard likely did not have a lot of time to wait.

He was still typing two-handed with the occasional wince when Ronon returned with another of the Genii pictures of John in hand, plus one of Rodney's just in case. "Here," the Satedan announced as he approached.

Rodney had settled down on one of the stools and was engrossed in his work; the pictures sliding across the keyboard of the laptop broke his concentration but he didn't snap at Ronon. Instead, he quickly snatched up both images and scrutinized them carefully. "I thought so!" he exclaimed, and looked at Teyla. "This is it, this is our big clue," he said with an air of certainty as he reached for the picture of John that had been brought back from Istura. "Take a look at these. Notice anything different?"

He waited and watched while two sets of eyes pored over the three pictures, now laid out side by side on the table. However, he wasn't that patient a person. "These two," he said, waving the original pictures Teyla and Ronon had brought back to Atlantis, "don't have _this_," he used his forefinger to trace beneath a line written on the Isturan picture, the same line that Rodney had just been discussing with Teyla. "I'm guessing that somebody other than the Genii had an interest in Sheppard."

"How does this help us?" Teyla wanted to know. "There is still nothing to link the Isturans to John's abduction..."

"_Au contraire,_" Rodney replied with a satisfied grin. "Those 'wanted dead or alive' photo-ops were all part of Ladon's complicated little takeover, as well as to advance their research into the Ancient gene and as such, there was only ever really _one_ place they were distributed."

"We don't know that for a fact," Ronon rumbled suspiciously.

"Well, okay, we don't, but the only other place we've ever run into another one of these is Istura. And as far as I know, we've never had anybody else try to take me, or for that matter any other offworld team member with the ATA gene, in for the reward."

"That's 'cause yours is fake," Ronon said, barely hiding the smirk that wanted to appear.

"If anything, that my ATA ability was _designed_ would make me highly valuable in terms of gene-therapy research," McKay sniffed and then waved a hand. "Whatever, the point is, whoever was so keen on getting their paws on Sheppard likely duplicated more of _his_ picture specifically and handed it out on Istura, with the added bonus of a personalized invitation for a big fat reward in the mother tongue, so to speak, if I can ever find a match on it in the database."

As if summoned by the sheer force of McKay's train of thought, both laptops working on the language identification and translation _pinged_ at nearly the same time, and the scientist spun around on the stool, carefully working his arm back into the sling and stepping over to check each screen.

"Find somethin'?" Ronon prompted first, resisting the impulse to sigh impatiently.

"Yeah..." Rodney murmured, without elaborating at first as he leaned closer and pecked at the keyboard of one of the laptops with his good hand. "This is...oh this is so not good," he murmured, and then looked up at his team-mates, who were now watching him expectantly. "According to the translation data, our mystery language appears to be the very old, very obscure written dialect of Istura's religious class."

"Sounds good enough to me," Ronon enthused. "Weir'll have to let us go."

"I repeat; _not_ good," Rodney repeated with a shake of his head. "The language is a match but its base elements break down not into some theme or variation of Ancient, but into a distinctive code. A _Wraith_ code."

"Wraith?" Teyla echoed, trading anxious looks with Ronon. "What would the Isturans have to do with the Wraith?"

"I'm sure I don't want to know," Rodney replied with a grimace. "But this is some pretty old reference material. A lot can change in ten-thousand years. Maybe there _was_ a connection but it's more than possible it doesn't exist anymore, or maybe their high priesthood thought this would make a suitably obscure language for their so-called sacred texts or something."

"Or they're traitors," Ronon interjected disgustedly, his expression a reflection of his tone and his bearing as tense as anything Rodney had ever seen from him. "Either way, we gotta go back. If you're right, they took Sheppard. And they know about Atlantis."

"_If_ I'm right...?"

"Ronon is correct; either way, we cannot risk the Wraith discovering that the city still exists," Teyla added, her tone urgent. "Come, we must take this information to Elizabeth."

Rodney handed the pictures to Teyla. "You two take the information to Elizabeth. Somebody should...I should stay here and keep working." He glanced between his two team-mates and hunched his shoulders. "I mean, seriously, I would love to go...beat the answers out of the Isturan Council with you and all, but saving Sheppard would be much better served by my staying here and helping Carson research that toxin."

"You should stay with Sheppard," Ronon agreed with a slight nod.

"Really?" Rodney blinked, having almost expected some resistance. "I mean, I know we want to get to the bottom of this, but what good will it be if Sheppard's dead by the time we figure it all out?"

"Yes, indeed," Teyla agreed as she took the pictures from the scientist. "It is important that we all do what we can to bring John completely back to us."

"Good...okay...that's good," Rodney muttered as he perched upon the stool once more, facing the laptop that was carrying on the search of the medical database. Carefully easing his arm back out of the sling, he cautiously began typing with both hands again.

"Good luck, McKay," Ronon intoned from the doorway as he followed Teyla out. Rodney glanced up and nodded slightly.

"You too."

* * *

John woke up in near-darkness and for a brief, disoriented moment felt a bloom of panic in his chest when he didn't know where he was. Aches and pains spoke the loudest in the dim lighting and for a moment he was back in Afghanistan, feeling the after-effects of a beating at the hands of Taliban militants. His heart hammered hard in his chest, making his headache spike and prompting a groan. Then he realized he was lying on a fairly comfortable bed with clean sheets, a warm blanket and a couple rather soft pillows..._Infirmary_, he told himself. His eyes adjusting to the dusky light, he cautiously shifted a little, unsurprised to see a nurse quickening her pace toward him.

"Colonel Sheppard?" she murmured quietly, and John recognized her as the nurse who had put the EEG pads on him however long ago. "You all right, sir?" She was already checking over the IV and the various monitors. He took note of her demeanor and the 'sir' with which she'd addressed him.

"Lieutenant?" he hazarded a hopeful guess, pleased to find his voice sounding, if not stronger, at least a little less hoarse. The nurse—a redhead, no less—smiled at him cheerfully.

"Not anymore, Sir," she answered him. "Just made Captain last month...you pinned the bars on me yourself just a couple days before..." She cleared her throat, and made notations in his chart. "It was really nice, you know, and I didn't really get a good chance to thank you for putting me up for promotion."

"Don't think I've got anyplace to go," John kidded, but knew the light teasing wasn't fooling her; the tired drawl he seemed to have permanently adopted completely ruining the effect. The nurse smiled anyway.

"Well then, I guess this is the perfect opportunity," she said in kind. "Thank you, Colonel, for putting me up for promotion."

"You're welcome," John replied as genially as he could under his current circumstances. "I'm sure I'll remember...eventually...all the details of your...exemplary service and all that. Captain...?" His good hand motioned slightly, prompting a response.

"Noble, Sir. Captain Marlene Noble. But most people call me 'Marley,'" the nurse filled in, and John nodded slightly in acknowledgement. "Can I get you anything, Colonel?" she asked solicitously.

"Doctor Beckett still on duty?" John wondered aloud, and 'Marley' shook her head.

"We made him take a break. Doctor Suhaila's just come on shift, though. I can get her if you need..."

"No, that's okay," John reassured her and took a careful breath.

"Are you sure?" Marley watched him closely. "You look a little shaky, sir, and Doctor Suhaila is just over..."

John squeezed his eyes closed briefly as the headache pulsed through his temples, reminding him of its presence, and then he forced them open, giving his caretaker a cautious smile. "Just a dream, Captain. I'm...a little thirsty. If I could..." Giving her something to do, it seemed, was the best way to change the subject.

"Certainly," Marley responded and poured a little water from a pitcher on a nearby tray table. Parking a straw into the cup, she brought it close for John to sip from the liquid within.

"Thanks," John murmured and leaned his head back cautiously and wearily into the pillows.

"I'll just be across the way if you need anything, Sir," the nurse promised as she set the cup aside. "Try to go back to sleep."

John squinted a little; was she kidding? The low bass note that had throbbed its way through his brain now seemed to be...vibrating through the rest of him. He didn't know how else to explain it but it was as if it was all around him, now, beating at his body and mind, a distorted thrumming that, while making him weary beyond belief, at this moment was unlikely to let him go back to sleep.

"Okay," he mumbled, probably a little insincerely, but he did close his eyes. Unbidden, a shiver traveled through him and he grunted at the soreness it produced in various places, but then it continued, becoming a series of uncomfortable chills that swept through him and he tugged at the blanket with his good hand.

"Are you cold, Colonel?" Marley was back, and John realized at some point he must've zoned out, because he hadn't been aware of her return. Her blue eyes were somewhat round in a disbelieving expression. After a moment of hazy blinking, John realized the nurse was slightly sweating; she pushed aside strands of red hair plastered to her forehead.

"Little...little bit," John murmured groggily. Despite himself, he shivered again and groaned as it swept fresh discomfort through him. Marley shook her head slightly.

"It's really warm in here," she commented as she retrieved a thermometer. "Just let me take your temperature, Sir." She inserted the plastic tip into John's ear and he obediently held still. The small _beep, beep_ seemed almost unnaturally loud with the thumping rhythm carrying on in his head and he cringed. "One-oh-oh, even; it's barely a fever, Colonel." Marley offered him a reassuring smile. "If you really want, though, I can get you another blanket." John nodded a little, closing his eyes.

"Thanks," he mumbled as, a few moments later, he felt another of the deceptively light Infirmary blankets being layered over him.

"You're welcome, Sir," Marley said softly. "There's a visitor here for you." John cracked his eyes open. "Just a few minutes, okay?" the nurse was saying. "He really needs his rest."

When the nurse stepped aside to go back to whatever she'd been doing earlier, John blinked in surprise to see a small boy edging closer to his bedside, eyes wide with worry. The face wasn't any more familiar than anyone else's around here, but the clear concern in the child's eyes was enough to make him dredge up a smile from somewhere and try to ignore his various hurts.

"Hello, Colonel Sheppard," the boy said uncertainly but before John could ask the kid's name or try to figure out how he knew the little guy, his gaze was drawn to a rather tall man just stepping up behind the child, a broad hand coming to rest on the boy's shoulder.

"Wickley wished to come see you before we returned...home," the man said, and his voice was calm, and kindly. There was something odd in his way of speaking; not an accent necessarily so much as a tone of formality. John blinked up at him a little before nodding his acceptance. He was a little startled as small fingers wrapped around his hand and shifted his attention back to Wickley.

"Careful of the IV, buddy," he warned first as he carefully shifted his hand a little; Wickley let go immediately but John reached up to take the smaller hand in his palm. "There, like that's good," he said, and offered the boy another smile. Wickley looked up at the tall man; perhaps his father, although John couldn't see the resemblance, personally. Tall Guy nodded a bit and Wickley turned back to John.

"Are you feeling better?" Wickley asked outright, and from the flicker of the boy's eyes, John could tell that the kid was trying not to overtly stare at the mottled bruises, the proliferation of medical equipment or the cast on his left arm. "Doctor McKay said you had a...really bad headache, and Halling says because you were hurt, you have forgotten...things." John swallowed a little; the throbbing in his head joined by a brief clench of nausea, the latter feeding off the former along with a touch of nervousness at how to answer the child holding his hand.

"It'll be all right," he reassured first, squeezing the smaller hand and trying not to wince at the slight tug on the IV that produced. "They're takin' really good care of me, and they're gonna help me get better and remember stuff. So don't worry, okay?" He did his best to hold Wickley's gaze.

"Okay," Wickley said softly but to John's mind he looked unconvinced. He had to admit that, in Wickley's place, he'd be a little skeptical too, given what he must look like right now. John offered another small smile.

"I know it looks pretty bad," he said carefully. "And I won't lie to you; it doesn't feel so good either. But Doctor Beckett's gonna make sure I'm okay, and he gave me some medicine to help me feel better."

"You promised to teach us how to play football," Wickley's voice was very soft now but the look on his face very hopeful, and John wondered briefly what he'd gotten himself into. He was saved from answering by the tall man, who squeezed Wickley's shoulder slightly.

"You must be patient, Wickley," he said firmly but not unkindly. "It will take much time and rest for Colonel Sheppard to be well again. When that is achieved, then we will see what he says about teaching you and your friends about this football."

"Sounds...like a plan...to me," John murmured, nodding thankfully to the tall guy before giving Wickley a reassuring, albeit tired, wink.

"You will not forget again?" Wickley asked carefully, wide eyes blinking back unwanted tears.

"Hey...hey," John let go of the boy's hand, reaching up to pat Wickley's upper arm gently. "I promise, Wickley. I'm not gonna forget about you, buddy." He hoped using the child's name would help reinforce his intent. "All right then... You trust me, now?"

Wickley nodded, and despite the worried look, smiled a little.

"Come, now, Wickley," the Tall Guy cajoled gently. "It is time to go. Colonel Sheppard needs rest, and so do you. Your family is waiting to see you."

Wickley looked up over his shoulder and nodded, before leveling the most serious gaze he could muster at John. "I am sorry you were hurt so much," he declared solemnly. "I hope you will be well again soon."

"Me too," John agreed wholeheartedly. "Workin' on it."

Tall Guy murmured something to Wickley about waiting for him in the outer area of the Infirmary; the boy nodded obediently, and quietly slipped away. "Thank you for those few minutes, Colonel," he said warmly. "I know you do not remember us, but like Wickley, many of our children on the mainland have come to care a great deal for you."

"Seems like...a good kid," John observed tiredly; he was coming to the end of his endurance for this visit. "He your son? Uhm...?"

"I am Halling," the man said with a slight cant of his head. "And no, Wickley is not my son. I am merely here to bring him home to his family."

"Pleased to...meet you," John breathed out; the effort to speak draining as well as adding to the throb in his head and, it seemed, to the general soreness of his body. His eyelids betrayed his will as they dipped lower despite a willingness to continue the conversation. Any little nugget that might trigger his wayward memories was appreciated. Obviously he was on friendly and familiar terms with these two, and he wouldn't mind a little more time to try to unearth the history. Halling certainly wasn't the military type; true, he carried himself with the unassuming air of someone who'd had a hard life and was familiar with hard work, yet with gentleness that spoke of something more aesthetic, perhaps even spiritual. It was a curious combination of personality elements.

A combination that John's sluggish brain would have to ponder later; where he hadn't believed sleep all that possible earlier, now with or without his permission his body seemed determined to return to it despite the nagging, gnawing ache. Halling was saying something, taking his leave, but John couldn't quite bring himself to respond, eyelids slipping completely closed. It occurred to him vaguely, just before sleep claimed him completely, that where he'd been chilled before, he now felt as if he was dragging in ninety-degree heat.

Then it didn't matter anymore.

* * *

"Radek," Elizabeth looked up expectantly from her desk. "What can you tell me?" Her tone was just as expectant, and the Czech grimaced briefly.

"Not nearly enough," he prefaced before stating flatly, "Put simply, Atlantis' systems are inexplicably failing. It is only a matter of time before the city is completely incapacitated."

"Failing?" Weir echoed as she leaned sharply back in her chair, stunned. "I don't understand; failing how? Is there something wrong with the ZPM?"

"No, it's not a power issue, at least, not as far as _availability_. The ZPM and the naquadah generators are perfectly intact," Zelenka explained with a helpless shake of his head. "But for reasons we don't understand, the city is slowly losing its ability to maintain power levels necessary to operate properly. So far only basic systems have been affected, but eventually it will spread to far more critical functions. As yet, city-wide diagnostics have failed to reveal any equipment malfunctions or integrity issues that could cause or contribute to the problem."

"You're right," Elizabeth agreed as she folded her arms. "It's not enough. We need options, Radek."

"I have, however, been examining the various power fluctuations and system failures from the first confirmed reports," Zelenka continued, pushing his glasses up as he spoke. "While the initial occurrences seemed quite random...lights, environmental systems...they have in fact settled into an almost predictable pattern now."

Weir leaned forward once again, her attention fixed on the Czech. "So...what does that give us?"

"Until we can discover the source of the trouble, again not much," Radek admitted. "But it appears, we _think_, that Atlantis is gradually initiating a...type of emergency hibernation mode, not unlike when we first arrived, really, except..." Zelenka trailed off uncertainly and glanced aside.

"Except what? Radek?" Weir prompted.

"Except this time, we don't know why; perhaps it is some sort of automatic backup but we don't know what initiated it. And I'm not at all sure we'll be able to reestablish the city's power grid. There has been damage done to several of the underlying secondary systems during the various shutdowns. If Atlantis' primary systems fail completely, it may become permanent, irreversible damage." He cleared his throat nervously. "We would effectively lose the city."

Elizabeth exhaled sharply, and after a moment, nodded reluctantly. "I'll get Rodney to join you on this," she declared, but before she could as much as reach for her earpiece, she realized her doorway was being filled by a tall, agitated Satedan. "Ronon?"

"They were working with the Wraith," Ronon growled unhappily, once again dropping the Genii picture of Sheppard onto her desk. "McKay says that," he pointed to the particular line of writing, "proves it."

"What?" Elizabeth exclaimed, startled. "Who was working with the Wraith?" Behind Ronon, Teyla stepped into the office, calm and collected as ever, except for a barely perceptible tension in her stance.

"Rodney deciphered the various languages represented here," the Athosian explained in more detail. "The one Ronon pointed out to you is a variation of a Wraith code, and it is employed by the Isturans." Teyla paused only briefly before continuing. "If the Wraith become aware of Atlantis' continued existence..."

"We gotta go back there and find out what those people know," Ronon stated simply, shoulders bunched with barely restrained anger as he leaned down, palms flat on her desk. "Whether you want us to or not, I'm goin'."

"And I am going with him," Teyla declared, her expression becoming grim and determined. "We must learn the truth behind Colonel Sheppard's capture. For his sake as much as our own."

"Sheppard's runnin' outta time," Ronon pushed away from Elizabeth's desk and nodded vaguely past his shoulder, indicating the Infirmary beyond. "You know what McKay and Beckett said; that drug's messing with his brain. If the Wraith had somethin' to do with it..." The Satedan shook his head vehemently and turned away.

"Ronon, wait," Elizabeth called after the tall fighter as he started for the door, presumably to carry out his intentions.

"I'm done waiting," Ronon said, although he did stop walking and turned just enough to look at her.

"I know it's been a difficult time for you," Elizabeth stated as she pushed up from her chair. Coming around her desk, she crossed over to stand in front of the taller man. A heartbeat passed between them before he looked down at her directly, but he said nothing. "Believe me; it hasn't been easy on any of us. I know I can't stop you from leaving Atlantis, but if you were determined to go regardless of what I had to say, you wouldn't be here right now asking my approval for this mission."

She watched as the Satedan shifted his stance, eyeing her frankly.

"So...?" Ronon prompted impatiently.

"So give me a chance to weigh the information and make the decision you came here for," she said firmly, not backing away from his gaze. She held the silence a moment longer. "I happen to agree with you. We need to know if the Wraith—or the Genii, for that matter—were involved in what happened to John. Now that you've established the probable involvement of the Isturans beyond a simple hunch, that's good enough for me."

Elizabeth could feel his eyes on her as she turned around and headed back toward her desk.

"So you're gonna let us go?" Ronon faced Elizabeth once again, but he was still in the doorframe.

"Yes," Weir answered as she settled back into her chair and then looked up at the Satedan. "I am...along with a team of Marines."

"Doctor Weir?" Radek spoke up from where he'd remained, pushing his glasses up nervously. "That could potentially be a problem. The Gate hasn't been affected by the system failures yet, but it is only a matter of time before it..."

"It's workin' now?" Ronon asked flatly, pinning the shorter Czech to the wall with a blunt stare.

"Well, yes, at the moment the DHD and the Gate are still drawing power; it's my estimation the Gate would be one of the last..."

"Then we go," Ronon shrugged.

"We could lose power to the Gate while you're offworld," Radek replied evenly.

"If that happens," Elizabeth interjected, "and you run into trouble, we won't be able to help you."

"Perhaps it would be better, then," Teyla intervened, "if Ronon and I were to depart immediately, before the opportunity is lost." She glanced at Radek before continuing. "If the need arises, we can gate to the Alpha site until the problem here is resolved."

Weir exhaled slowly as she leaned forward on the desk, lacing her fingers together in a deliberate manner. "I'd prefer if you waited for that team of Marines," she said first, before looking up at Sheppard's team-mates. "We spent three weeks searching for John, not even knowing if he was still alive. I'd rather not spend another three weeks doing the same for you."

"You won't," Ronon reassured steadily, arms folded across his chest. "And if this _is_ Wraith, and they're plannin' somethin', better for Atlantis if your people are here to defend it." He glanced over at Radek, and the Czech cleared his throat slightly.

"There's no reason—yet—to believe the Wraith know the city survived. Long range sensors are still active at this point; they're clear," Zelenka provided without being asked aloud. "No sign of Wraith activity anywhere in the vicinity. Like the Gate, I imagine the sensors would be one of the last systems to be affected."

"If you must send others with us," Teyla addressed Elizabeth once again, "Consider the offer my people have made to help gather information. They will be discreet, and have many contacts that would be willing to aid us should it prove necessary to pursue the search beyond the Isturans."

Elizabeth pursed her lips thoughtfully as she regarded the Athosian leader; her eyes narrowing slightly as she recalled her earlier discussion out on the balcony. Had that really only been a few hours ago? "Halling did speak to me about his desire—about the Athosian desire—to help John by contributing to the investigation into his kidnapping."

"I am certain he will have an able group readied within the hour to depart for Istura," Teyla asserted.

Weir exhaled slowly and reached up to rub her forehead briefly. In her head she could already hear what would normally be the expected protest from John Sheppard regarding the safety of the civilians under the city's protection. However, Sheppard wasn't in a position to make that protest, and there was a certain validity to keeping the Marines in Atlantis should the Wraith learn the city still existed and execute some sort of attack. Besides the fact that Halling had also made a point...it would go a long way to healing past trust issues, plus the Athosians still knew their way around Pegasus a lot more than the Lantean expedition.

"Very well," Elizabeth rubbed the back of her neck now but met Teyla's gaze. "I don't believe the pilot that brought Halling over from the mainland has taken him back yet; I'll have the lieutenant report here and take you to the mainland. Gather what help you'll need, and then he'll pilot the jumper to Istura. That way, you'll have a protected escape through the Gate, if that becomes necessary. Hopefully it won't."

"Thank you, Doctor Weir," Teyla replied with a slight nod. "We will return as quickly as possible." Taking Ronon in with a glance, the Athosian strode quickly from Elizabeth's office with the intention of preparing for their return to Istura. Elizabeth turned her gaze to Ronon as well, and was surprised when the Satedan also inclined his head to her, an approving expression in the forbidding features before he turned in silent, fluid motion to follow after his team-mate.

"Good luck," Weir murmured softly as she watched their retreat through the operations area, and then sat back with a breath as she realized Zelenka was still there, datapad in hand. She held the Czech's gaze as she activated her earpiece and summoned McKay.

Ronon and Teyla weren't the only ones in need of some good luck.


End file.
